“Well, mind! It’s got to be the last,” said Parker decisively. “I had not realised you had been playing the devil to such an extent as this. I had a sort of idea that you were only one of a committee. And what a frightful lot of trouble you must have taken. I suppose Maud was always moving about so that he could never nail her.”
“Always, just where I was going, too, by a curious coincidence. And her old aunt is a regular tartar; I don’t suppose there ever was such a typical female guardian outside a penny novelette. But she is turning out a trump now about taking Maud abroad, I will say that for her. They remain at Dover a week. I’ve arranged for it. I knew you two would wish me to feel myself quite untrammelled, and, indeed, I wish it myself. Then we’ll hand him the whole series, and see how he takes it; and tell him we’ve shown it to a few of his most intimate friends first, and your aunt, Parker—she’ll nearly die of it—and that they are all of opinion that it’s the best thing he has done since his paper on Bacchylides.”
Neither of us answered. In spite of myself I was sorry for Maitland.
A few days later Barrett came to my rooms. We knocked on the floor for Parker, and he came up.
Then he put down a letter on the table and we read it in silence.
It was just what we expected, an enigmatic, self-protecting effusion. Maitland was hedging. He had evidently been put off by Maud’s illness, and talked a great deal about friendship being the crown of life, and how she must think of nothing but the care of her health, etc., etc.; and he on his side must not be selfish and trouble her with too many letters, etc.
“Brute,” said Parker.
“There’s another,” said Barrett.
“You don’t mean to say you wrote again. There’s not been time.”