“Has she never heard of the aristocracy of genius?” demanded Alexander the Poet.
“The explanation may be that possibly she has seen it,” feared the Wee Laddie.
“One of us ought to waylay the woman,” argued the Babe—“insist upon her talking to him for ten minutes. I’ve half a mind to do it myself.”
Jack Herring said nothing—seemed thoughtful.
The next morning Jack Herring, still thoughtful, called at the editorial offices of Good Humour, in Crane Court, and borrowed Miss Ramsbotham’s Debrett. Three days later Jack Herring informed the Club casually that he had dined the night before with Mr. and Mrs. Loveredge. The Club gave Jack Herring politely to understand that they regarded him as a liar, and proceeded to demand particulars.
“If I wasn’t there,” explained Jack Herring, with unanswerable logic, “how can I tell you anything about it?”
This annoyed the Club, whose curiosity had been whetted. Three members, acting in the interests of the whole, solemnly undertook to believe whatever he might tell them. But Jack Herring’s feelings had been wounded.
“When gentlemen cast a doubt upon another gentleman’s veracity—”
“We didn’t cast a doubt,” explained Somerville the Briefless. “We merely said that we personally did not believe you. We didn’t say we couldn’t believe you; it is a case for individual effort. If you give us particulars bearing the impress of reality, supported by details that do not unduly contradict each other, we are prepared to put aside our natural suspicions and face the possibility of your statement being correct.”
“It was foolish of me,” said Jack Herring. “I thought perhaps it would amuse you to hear what sort of a woman Mrs. Loveredge was like—some description of Mrs. Loveredge’s uncle. Miss Montgomery, friend of Mrs. Loveredge, is certainly one of the most remarkable women I have ever met. Of course, that isn’t her real name. But, as I have said, it was foolish of me. These people—you will never meet them, you will never see them; of what interest can they be to you?”