"There's really nothing in eyes, you know, Chatteris," said my cousin Melville, borrowing an alien argument and a tone of analytical cynicism from me. "Have you ever looked at eyes through a hole in a sheet?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Chatteris. "I don't mean the mere physical eye. . . . Perhaps it's the look of health—and the bath chair. A bold discord. You don't know what's the matter, Melville?"
"How?"
"I gather from Bunting it's a disablement—not a deformity."
"He ought to know."
"I'm not so sure of that. You don't happen to know the nature of her disablement?"
"I can't tell at all," said Melville in a speculative tone. It struck him he was getting to prevaricate better.
The subject seemed exhausted. They spoke of a common friend whom the sight of the Métropole suggested. Then they did not talk at all for a time, until the stir and interest of the band-stand was passed. Then Chatteris threw out a thought.
"Complex business—feminine motives," he remarked.
"How?"
"This canvassing. She can't be interested in philanthropic Liberalism."
"Why not?"
"There's a difference in the type. And besides, it's a personal matter."
"Not necessarily, is it? Surely there's not such an
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