“Oh dear, no, but I had to ease my—my conscience by entering a strong protest. I feel better now, thanks.”
“That’s right. But to descend to practical details, won’t the fact that she suspects I saw what I did make it rather awkward for us to meet?”
“Are you sure she suspects it?”
“No, not sure, or I should go away at once. I may be a fool, but I am not a knave.”
Manvers extended his hand in the air deprecatingly.
“Oh, don’t make repartees during a thunderstorm. They so seldom mean anything, in fact the better a repartee is, the less it means; and they give a nervous shock to the reparteee—if I may coin a word. Also he is bound in mere politeness to cudgel his brains to see if they do mean something. When you have an opportunity you must say she looked so awfully tired last night, and that you noticed her face once in a blaze of lightning, and you were quite frightened; she looked so out of sorts, or done up, or run down, or something. It’s very simple. But is there no chance——”
“No, not a vestige,” said Tom. “Besides, I don’t believe that you really advise what you say.”
“Tom, you’ve never heard me give advice before, and you must attach the proper weight to it as a rare product.”
“Why, you are always giving me advice about turning realist.”
“No, you’re wrong there; I only prophesy that you will. That I often prophesy, I don’t deny. There is nothing so amusing to one’s self, or so unconvincing to other people. It is the most innocent of amusements. Besides, you can always compare yourself to Cassandra—she was classical—when people don’t believe you.”