Or it might be De Vere or Carew or Williams. But no one got a rise out of Penelope.
"I am entirely determined to give a lead to those who wish to be married without publicity. I shall found a society presently," said Penelope.
When Titania, whom nothing could discourage, went at her furiously, Bradstock smiled.
"If she has a daughter, some day we shall see the girl married in Westminster Abbey," said Bradstock. But even he was very curious.
"Have you found out anything yet, Bob?" he asked that young financier.
"I'm on the way," said Bob, "give me time, Lord Bradstock. I feel sure it's not De Vere. He's buying all the dogs I offer him. If he was sure, he wouldn't."
But Bradstock wasn't certain. Penelope might have no humour, but she was quite equal to ordering De Vere to buy in order to blind Bob.
"I never thought of that," said Bob. "I frankly own Pen's a deal worse than Euclid. And I never thought to say that of anything."
And upon a certain day in June, when June was doing its best to live up to the poet's ideal, Pen disappeared, by herself, leaving Bob at home with Guthrie, who now came over each day to keep the young vagabond doing something. She came back after lunch, and Bob found her abnormally silent. She had nothing to say, and there was a curious far-off look in her eyes. Her interest in dogs was nil; she showed no appreciation of ferrets; when he spoke she said "Oh" and "Ah" and "what's that you say?" And Bob had no suspicion whatsoever, just as clever people never have when they might be expected to show their wisdom.
When she did speak, though, it was to the point.