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
myself that with Vereker's death the major incentive dropped. He
was still there to be honoured by what might be done--he was no
longer there to give it his sanction. Who alas but he had the
authority?
Two children were born to the pair, but the second cost the mother
her life. After this stroke I seemed to see another ghost of a
chance. I jumped at it in thought, but I waited a certain time for
manners, and at last my opportunity arrived in a remunerative way.
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