"Well," she repeated, "Sir Tiglath is a very strange, peculiar old man."
The Prophet thought that if the young librarian had been present he
would have eliminated the second adjective.
"Peculiar! Yes, he is. His appearance, his manner--"
"Oh, I don't mean that."
"No?"
"No. Lots of elderly men have purple faces, turned legs and roaring
voices. You must know that. Sir Tiglath is peculiar in this way--he is
quite elderly and yet he's not in the least little bit silly."
"Oh!"
"He's a thoroughly sensible old man, the only one I ever met."
"Your father?"
"The Chieftain can be very foolish at times. That's why he's always
relied so on me."
She gave this proof triumphantly. The Prophet felt bound to accept it.
"Sir Tiglath is really, as an old man, what everybody thinks I am, as a
young woman. D'you see?"
"You mean?"
"The opposite of me. And in this way too. While I hide my silliness
under my eyebrows, and hair, and smile, and manner, he hides his
sensibleness under his. When people meet me they always think--what a
common-sense young woman! When they meet him they always think--what a
preposterous old man!"
"Well, but then," cried the Prophet, struck by a sudden idea, "if that
is so, how can you live a double life as Miss Minerva Partridge? You
can't change your eyebrows with your name!"
"Ah, you don't know women!" she murmured.
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