“I am afraid,” Walter said, with a sigh, “he hasn’t quite forgiven me for putting Wimple on to him. It really was a ghastly thing for The Centre to get reviews from other papers palmed off on it as fresh ones. I can’t think, setting aside the lowness of cheating, how Wimple could be such a fool as to suppose that Fisher wouldn’t find out that they had been prigged.”
“He was quite taken in at first. I remember his telling me that Mr. Wimple wrote very well.”
“You see, those Scotch papers are uncommonly clever. How Wimple expected not to be found out I can’t imagine. If he had prigged from the Timbuctoo Journal, of course he might have escaped. Fisher must have sworn freely. It made him look such an ass”—and Walter laughed, in spite of himself.
“Is there a Timbuctoo Journal?” Florence asked innocently.
“No, you sweet idiot—perhaps there is, though. Should think it would be interesting. Probably gives an account of a roast-missionary feast now and then.”
“You horrid thing!” said Florence. “I wish Mr. Wimple were in Timbuctoo, and that I knew how poor Aunt Anne was getting on.”
“Poor, dear old fool!—we never dreamed what would come of that introduction, either, did we?”
“Oh, Walter, I shall never forget what I suffered about her at the cottage when she told me she was going to marry Mr. Wimple. And then, after she had vanished, there were the bills at Witley and Guildford. I can’t imagine what she did with all the things she bought, for she was only at the cottage a week or so without me.”
“Probably sent them to Wimple at Liphook.”
“She couldn’t send him chickens and claret, and cakes and chocolate, and a dozen other things.”