Part 12 (1/2)

But the mental jaundice was pa.s.sing--and the natural belief of man in himself was coming back. Ho felt the gas expert had been right, even though he had died. And so Vane became a reader of books of a type which had not formerly been part of his daily programme. He was groping towards knowledge, and he deliberately sought every help for the way. He tried some of H. G. Wells's to start with. . . .

Previously he had read the ”First Men in the Moon,” because he'd been told it was exciting; and ”Ann Veronica,” because he had heard it was immoral. Now he tried some of the others.

He was engaged thus when Joan Devereux found him one afternoon in his favourite haunt. She had stumbled on his hiding place by mistake, and her first instinct was to retire as quickly as she had come. Since their first meeting, their conversation, on the rare occasions they had met at Rumfold Hall, had been confined to the most commonplace remarks, and those always in the presence of someone else. Any possibility of a _tete-a-tete_ she had avoided; and the necessary mental effort had naturally caused her to think all the more about him. Now, just as she halted in her tracks and prepared to back out through the undergrowth, Vane looked up at her with his slow lazy smile.

”Discovered!” he remarked scrambling to his feet, and saluting her.

”Joan, you have come in the nick of time.”

”I would prefer you not to call me Joan,” she answered coldly. ”And after your abominable rudeness last time we were alone together, I don't want to talk to you at all.”

”I suppose I was rather rude,” answered Vane reflectively. ”Though, if it's any comfort to you to know, I was much ruder to two men going up in the train a few days later. . . .”

”It isn't of the slightest interest to me,” she returned, ”whom you're rude to, or how you spend your spare time. The habits of an ill-mannered boor are not of great importance, are they?” She turned her back on him, and parted the undergrowth with her hands, preparatory to leaving.

”Don't go.” His voice close behind her made her pause. ”I need you--officially.”

She looked round at him, and despite herself the corners of her lips began to twitch. ”You really are the most impossible person,” she remarked. ”What do you need me for?”

He stepped back to his usual seat, and pointed to a small mossy bank beside him. ”Come and sit down there, and let's think. . . .”

After a moment's hesitation she did as he said.

”It's rather a knotty problem, isn't it?” he continued after a moment.

”I might want you to flirt with me in order to avert my suicide in the pond through boredom. . . .”

”You may want,” she retorted.

”But it's in the official programme?”

”You're not on the official list,” she flashed back.

”Worse and worse,” he murmured. ”I begin to despair. However, I won't try you as highly as that. I will just ask you a plain, honest question. And I rely on you to answer me truthfully. . . . Do you think I should be a more attractive being; do you think I should be more capable of grappling with those great problems which--ah--surround us on all sides, if I could dissect rats--or even mice?” he added thoughtfully after a pause.

The girl looked at him in amazement. ”Are you trying to be funny?” she asked at length.

”Heaven forbid!” he said fervently. ”I was never more serious in my life. But, in that book,”--he pointed to one lying between them--”everybody, who is anybody dissects rodents.”

She picked up the book and gazed at the t.i.tle. ”But this is the book everybody's talking about,” she said.

”I am nothing if not fas.h.i.+onable,” returned Vane.

”And do they dissect rats in it?”

”Don't misunderstand me, and take too gloomy a view of the situation,”

said Vane rea.s.suringly. ”They do other things besides. . . .

Brilliant things, all most brilliantly written about; clever things, all most cleverly told. But whenever there's a sort of gap to be filled up, a _mauvais quart d'heure_ after luncheon, the hero runs off and deals with a mouse. And even if he doesn't, you know he could. . . . And the heroine! It's a fundamental part of all their educations, their extraordinary brilliance seems to rest on it as a foundation.”

She looked at him curiously. ”I'm not particularly dense,” she said after a while, ”but I must admit you rather defeat me.”

”Joan,” answered Vane seriously, and she made no protest this time at the use of her name, ”I rather defeat myself. In the old days I never thought at all--but if I ever did I thought straight. Now my mind is running round in circles. I chase after it; think I'm off at last--and then find myself back where I started. That's why I've put up the S.O.S., and am trying to get help.” He laid his hand on the book beside him.

”Are you reading all the highbrows?” she asked.