And now came the moments of suspense,—an anxious waiting. Corin and the two boys alone were absolutely at their ease. Corin, having engaged Rosamund in conversation, was expatiating on his day’s work. John, his eyes on the clock, his ear alert for the opening of a door, talked to Lady Mary. It is fairly certain that her eyes and her ears were likewise occupied.
“I hear from the boys that you were present at the cache this afternoon,” said she smiling.
John laughed.
“It was a fairy-tale scene,” quoth he. “I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds. It isn’t often an imaginative conception works so successfully.”
“In this instance,” she reminded him, “there was the Celtic temperament to deal with. Nothing is beyond the imagination of a Celt, I fancy.”
“No,” said John musingly. And then, “Not as criticism, but merely as query, I wonder how far it is justifiable to play upon it?”
“You mean that Molly’s imagination was played upon?”
“Yes.”
“I fancy,” said Lady Mary, “that the human element comes into most of our material rewards. It is the agency by which they are worked. In this case the human agency merely hid itself beneath a fantastic garb, thereby adding a subtle pleasure to the reward. I don’t know whether Molly believes in her heart of hearts that the fairies had been at work, any more than I’ll vouch for Tony’s and Michael’s belief in Santa Claus filling their stockings. I fancy there are many things the pleasure of which is enhanced by their being shrouded in the soft light of imagination, rather than by their being dragged forth to the somewhat garish light of fact. There’s no lack of truth in keeping them shrouded. There is, after all, no necessity to be merely blatant.”
“No,” laughed John.