"Lying!" I repeated feebly.
"Yes, lying—the stories he tells."
"But they aren't lies," I said. "At least, not exactly."
She emptied then all the vials of her wrath upon my head. Not lies? And what were they then? What were those romances if they were not lies? Was I trying to defend lies in general or only Captain Jones's lies in particular? Did I not realise the harm that he did with his stories? What had we all been about that we had not pulled him up long ago?
"Can't you conceive it as possible, Miss Cather," I asked her, "that lies should occasionally do good rather than harm? I don't mean really bad lies, of course—lies told to hurt people—but gorgeous lies, magnificent lies; lies that keep your sense of fantasy, your imagination alive; lies that paint your house a fairy palace and your wife a goddess?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Lester," she answered me. "I must confess I'm disappointed in you, but I suppose one never knows with a novelist—But never mind—thank you for your tea—I can only assure you that any woman who marries Captain Jones will have to reform him first. Good-night."
Even after this I did not realise the situation that was upon us. I saw now what I had not seen before, that she did, in truth, care for Bomb Jones—that that same affection would affect all our lives I had not yet perceived. Then, two days later, came the next development.
I was sitting in Peter's flat waiting for his return, when Bomb burst in. He was a creature transfigured, whether by triumph or rage I could not immediately tell. He stood there, out of breath, swelling out his chest, struggling for words, panting. At last they came.
"Where's Peter? Oh, where's Peter? Not back. But he must be back. It's always his time to be here just now. He must be here! Lester, I'm dumbfounded. I've no strength left in me. I'm finished. What do you think? Oh, but you'll never guess—you couldn't——"
"Miss Cather's accepted you," I interrupted.