"Silly—about Vereker! Why, what do I ever find him but awfully clever?"
"Well, what's that but silly? What on earth does awfully clever mean? For God's sake try to get at him. Don't let him suffer by our arrangement. Speak of him, you know, if you can, as I should have spoken of him."
I wondered an instant. "You mean as far and away the biggest of the lot—that sort of thing?"
Corvick almost groaned. "Oh, you know, I don't put them back to back that way; it's the infancy of art! But he gives me a pleasure so rare; the sense of"—he mused a little—"something or other."
I wondered again. "The sense, pray, of what?"
"My dear man, that's just what I want you to say!"
Even before Corvick had banged the door I had begun, book in hand, to prepare myself to say it. I sat up with Vereker half the night; Corvick couldn't have done more than that. He was awfully clever—I stuck to that, but he wasn't a bit the biggest of the lot. I didn't allude to the lot, however; I flattered myself that I emerged on this occasion from the infancy of art. "It's all right," they declared vividly at
