“Oh yes, I have everything in capital train now; the missis there has interest, she has relations on the boards. We expect great things from ‘The Termagant,’ don’t we, ducky?”
“Of course we do; it will be an enormous success,” she answered, speaking as it were in capital letters. “Recognition has been a long time in coming to the dear professor, has it not?”
As she spoke, Mrs. Puckle fastened her eyes on me; undoubtedly she had heard of “the readings.”
“Most geniuses have had the same painful experiences. Shakespeare, by all accounts, had little honour in his own day, and think of poor dear Chatterton! It’s my belief—and I know what I’m talking about—that the professor’s plays will be acclaimed by packed houses yet—his name and fame will be world-wide.”
As Mrs. Puckle’s manner was distinctly challenging, I meekly murmured:
“I hope so, I’m sure.”
The lady now proceeded to criticise, dissect, and destroy the reputations of the leading dramatic authors of the day. She talked ceaselessly; evidently she was talking for talking’s sake, in order to counteract Lizzie’s gloomy silence.
After the professor had swallowed a second strong tumbler of whisky and water, he ventured to draw his niece into the conversation; under the circumstances her composure was extraordinary. I sat amazed, as she unfolded parish happenings and domestic news, as if totally unconscious that a stranger had suddenly descended on her home and usurped her position. Meanwhile, I observed the new aunt carefully examining the forks and spoons and turning them about to discover the hall-mark. Satisfied that they were mostly old Georgian silver, she proceeded to cross-examine me.
“So you live at ‘The Roost’ altogether, Miss Lingard?”
“For the present—yes.”