“Didn’t you?”
The vicar’s failure to answer the question might be taken for a negative.
“Moreover, he greatly impressed me,” Speke added. There were two George Spekes. One had the departmental mind; the other was something more considerable than a rather arid public record indicated. “I always knew that he had a very first-rate intellect, but this afternoon it was even more striking than usual.”
“But,” said the vicar cautiously, “don’t you think it may be misleading him?”
“How? In what way?”
“I will give you a concrete instance of what I mean.” The vicar spoke very gravely. “And by the way, Whymper, it is a matter I want to talk to you about particularly. At Penfold, we are cursed with a sort of village ne’er-do-well, who has taken to writing poetry, blaspheming the Creator, and upholding the cause of the enemy. I am sorry to say that for some years now Brandon has been this man’s friend, lent him books from his private collection, helped to support him, and so on. Well, this morning, when I went to Hart’s Ghyll, Brandon told me that he had lately read a poem of this fellow John Smith’s, and that it had made a very deep impression upon him.”
“That’s interesting,” said Speke. “He told me the same. He said that a young man who lived in the village had lately produced the most wonderful poem he had ever read.”
“On the face of it, didn’t that strike you as nonsense?”
“No, not in the way that Brandon said it. He spoke as one having authority; and in the matter of poetry, he is thought, I believe, to have a good deal.”
“It may be so. But one mustn’t forget that in this case he is claiming semidivine honors for a half-educated, wholly mad village wastrel.”