Clingsborough, and
I met Vard and his daughter at one of the first dinners I went to. After
that I could think of nothing but that man's head. What a type! I raked up
all the details of his scandalous history; and there were enough to fill
an encyclopaedia. The papers were full of him just then; he was mud from
head to foot; it was about the time of the big viaduct steal, and
irreproachable citizens were forming ineffectual leagues to put him down.
And all the time one kept meeting him at dinners--that was the beauty of
it! Once I remember seeing him next to the Bishop's wife; I've got a
little sketch of that duet somewhere... Well, he was simply magnificent, a
born ruler; what a splendid condottiere he would have made, in gold armor,
with a griffin grinning on his casque! You remember those drawings of
Leonardo's, where the knight's face and the outline of his helmet combine
in one monstrous saurian profile? He always reminded me of that...
But how was I to get at him?--One day it occurred to me to try talking to
Miss Vard. She was a monosyllabic person, who didn't seem to see an inch
beyond the last remark one had made; but suddenly I found myself blurting
out, "I wonder if you know how extraordinarily paintable your father is?"
and you should have seen the change that came over her. Her eyes lit up
and she looked--well, as I've tried to make her look there. (He glanced up
at the sketch.) Yes, she said, _wasn't_ her father splendid, and didn't I
think him one of the handsomest men I'd ever seen?
That rather staggered me, I confess; I couldn't think her capable of
joking on such a subject, yet it seemed impossible that she should be
speaking seriously.
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