His demeanor
was a study in itself. It may be surmised, from what I have said of him,
that there was a strain of the actor in his composition; and I am
prepared to make an affidavit that, secure in the knowledge that he had
witnesses present to attest his identity, he hugely enjoyed the sensation
he was creating. That he looked forward with a profound pleasure to the
stir which the disclosure that he was the author of The Sybarites would
make. His face wore a beatific smile.
As Mr. Trevor continued, his voice became firmer and his manner more
majestic. It was a task distinctly to his taste, and one might have
thought he was reading the sentence of a Hastings. I was standing next
to his daughter. The look of astonishment, perhaps of horror, which I
had seen on her face when her father first began to read had now faded
into something akin to wickedness. Did she wink? I can't say, never
before having had a young woman wink at me. But the next moment her
vinaigrette was rolling down the bank towards the brook, and I was after
it. I heard her close behind me. She must have read my intentions by a
kind of mental telepathy.
"Are you going to do it?" she whispered.
"Of course," I answered. "To miss such a chance would be a downright
sin."
There was a little awe in her laugh.
"Miss Thorn is the only obstacle," I added, "and Mr. Cooke is our hope.
I think he will go by me."
"Don't let Miss Thorn worry you," she said as we climbed back.
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