At last Peter insisted that I should speak to her—she liked me better than she did the others—she would listen to me. Needless to say, she did not. Not only did she not listen, but turned on me ferociously.
"I'm proud of Benedick!" she cried. "I've cured him of the only fault he had. If you think I'm going to turn him back into a liar again, Mr. Lester, just for the entertainment of yourself and your friends, you're greatly mistaken. You have a strange notion of morality."
She was proud, but she was uneasy. She realised that he was not happy, that, in one way or another, the spring had gone out of him—yes, thank God, she was uneasy.
Well, there was the situation. There was apparently nothing to be done, no way out. This is simply the story, after all, of our blindness. Just as we had not seen the influence that was to check our Bomb, so we did not see the influence that would make his fancy flow again. It's a wonderful world, thank God!
About a week before the wedding Peter Westcott said to me:
"Lester, don't you think that Bomb's reviving a little again?" I fancied I had seen something. Bomb was a little brighter, a little less heavy ... yes, I had noticed.
"His fancy is being fed again somewhere," said Peter again. "Where? He tells us no stories."
No, he certainly did not. His determination to achieve perfect accuracy was painful. It was a case of——
"Where have you been, Bomb?"