Oke contemptuously,
"because I happen to know that it is true."
"Indeed!" I answered, working away at my sketch, and enjoying putting this
strange creature, as I said to myself, through her paces; "how is that?"
"How does one know that anything is true in this world?" she replied
evasively; "because one does, because one feels it to be true, I suppose."
And, with that far-off look in her light eyes, she relapsed into silence.
"Have you ever read any of Lovelock's poetry?" she asked me suddenly the
next day.
"Lovelock?" I answered, for I had forgotten the name. "Lovelock,
who"--But I stopped, remembering the prejudices of my host, who was
seated next to me at table.
"Lovelock who was killed by Mr. Oke's and my ancestors."
And she looked full at her husband, as if in perverse enjoyment of the
evident annoyance which it caused him.
"Alice," he entreated in a low voice, his whole face crimson, "for mercy's
sake, don't talk about such things before the servants."
Mrs. Oke burst into a high, light, rather hysterical laugh, the laugh of a
naughty child.
"The servants! Gracious heavens! do you suppose they haven't heard the
story? Why, it's as well known as Okehurst itself in the neighbourhood.
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