mystery finer and subtler.



CHAPTER XI.



It was therefore from her husband I could never remove my eyes: I
beset him in a manner that might have made him uneasy. I went even
so far as to engage him in conversation. Didn't he know, hadn't he
come into it as a matter of course?--that question hummed in my
brain. Of course he knew; otherwise he wouldn't return my stare so
queerly. His wife had told him what I wanted and he was amiably
amused at my impotence. He didn't laugh--he wasn't a laugher: his
system was to present to my irritation, so that I should crudely
expose myself, a conversational blank as vast as his big bare brow.
It always happened that I turned away with a settled conviction
from these unpeopled expanses, which seemed to complete each other
geographically and to symbolise together Drayton Deane's want of
voice, want of form. He simply hadn't the art to use what he knew;
he literally was incompetent to take up the duty where Corvick had
left it. I went still further--it was the only glimpse of
happiness I had. I made up my mind that the duty didn't appeal to
him. He wasn't interested, he didn't care. Yes, it quite
comforted me to believe him too stupid to have joy of the thing I
lacked. He was as stupid after as he had been before, and that
deepened for me the golden glory in which the mystery was wrapped.
I had of course none the less to recollect that his wife might have
imposed her conditions and exactions. I had above all to remind