I thanked her for these words, without asking anything further. As I have said, it was no affair of mine, from first to last; but the verification, after such a lapse of time, was doubly satisfactory to me.
Again I ask: How about the "Cui Bono" argument?
Another shake of the kaleidoscope, and I find myself at Wimbledon, staying with a friend—now, alas! passed away—who had then a pretty house not far from the Common, and with whom I often spent a few days when in London.
On this occasion she had asked some friends to meet me at tea, amongst them Mrs Alfred Wedgwood, to whom I had introduced her some years previously, and my friends "V. C. Desertis" and his wife.
A Miss Farquhar, whom I knew very slightly, was sharing a sofa with me, she sitting at one end and I at the other, leaving a vacant space between us. Mrs Wedgwood was talking to Mr Desertis at the moment, but suddenly looked across the room at our sofa, and began describing very graphically an old man of benevolent aspect sitting between Miss Farquhar and myself, leaning on a stick, and wearing a soft felt hat.
"He has long hair, almost down to his coat collar, and he looks such a dear, kind old man!" Mrs Wedgwood said; then turning round, she added: "Surely some of you must recognise him! he is so very clear and distinct in his whole personality."
Mrs Desertis whispered something to her husband, who asked at once if the old gentleman's hair was very white.
"Yes; quite white," said Mrs Wedgwood hopefully.
"And curly and long?"