But even the cleverest people are not always capable of providing for every emergency. The completest plot generally has its weak place.
The postscript, as you have seen, was a little masterpiece. But it nevertheless exposed the writer to a danger which (as the Journal will tell you) he only appreciated at its true value when it was too late to alter his mind. Finding himself forced, for the sake of appearances, to permit Lucilla to inform her father of his arrival at Ramsgate, he was now obliged to run the risk of having that important piece of domestic news communicated—either by Mr. Finch or by his wife—to no less a person than myself. You will remember that worthy Mrs. Finch, when we parted at the rectory, had asked me to write to her while I was abroad—and you will see, after the hint I have given you, that clever Mr. Nugent is beginning already to walk upon delicate ground. I say no more: Lucilla's turn now.—P.]
September 3rd.—Oscar has (I suppose) forgotten something which he ought to have included in his postscript to my letter.
More than two hours after I had sent it to the post, he asked if the letter had gone. For the moment, he looked annoyed when I said, Yes. But he soon recovered himself. It mattered nothing (he said); he could easily write again. "Talking of letters," he added, "do you expect Madame Pratolungo to write to you?" (This time it was he who referred to her!) I told him that there was not much chance, after what had passed on her side and on mine, of her writing to me—and then tried to put some of those questions about her which he had once already requested me not to press yet. For the second time, he entreated me to defer the discussion of that unpleasant subject for the present—and yet, with a curious inconsistency, he made another inquiry relating to the subject in the same breath.
"Do you think she is likely to be in correspondence with your father, or your stepmother, while she is out of England?" he asked.
"I should doubt her writing to my father," I said. "But she might correspond with Mrs. Finch."
He considered a little—and then turned the talk to the topic of our residence at Ramsgate next.
"How long do you stay here?" he inquired.
"It depends on Herr Grosse," I answered. "I will ask him when he comes next."
He turned away to the window—suddenly, as if he was a little put out.