To talk about the grounds of certainty is to talk metaphysically, and metaphysics being the highest form of nonsense, becomes sense in that altitude, as it must be if Hegel is to be believed. But in the conduct of life the grounds of certainty are an estate beyond the rainbow. If Penelope believed any one thing with more fervour than another, it was that her truthfulness must be self-evident. The course of events after the evening on which Titania fainted and recovered so sharply showed her that nothing was certain, not even self-evident truths. For though she said she was married, few, if any, believed her. Titania, who believed in her intuitions, as all right-minded women must, because reason is only an attribute of man, declared that Penelope had lied, to put it plainly. She invented an hypothesis to account for it.
"She found out she didn't want to marry any of them, and her courage to say so failed her. This notion of hers gives her time, and of course, my dear, as you see from what I say, she's not married in the least."
Bradstock, who was a philosopher, disagreed with her, and agreed with Bob.
"Not married in the least, eh?" said Bradstock. "What is the least degree of marriage which would meet with your moral approval, Titania?"
"Don't talk nonsense, Augustin," replied Titania, tartly.
"I cannot help it," said Augustin, "the situation is so absurd."
And so it was for every one but the Duchess and Penelope, who did not understand a joke even with illustrations. And they undoubtedly had the illustrations. There were leading articles in several papers on the subject of marriage, with discreet allusions to Penelope's case. There was a long and rabid correspondence in the Daily Turncoat, a new halfpenny paper, to which every lady with a past or a future contributed. The editor of the Dictator wrote a moral essay with his own hand, obvious to every student of his immemorial style, which proved that another such case would knock the bottom out of the British Empire and bring on protection. He showed that marriage, open and unadulterated, in a chapel, at the least, was the minimum on which morality could exist, and he pointed out with sad firmness that the ethical standards of the true Briton were the only decent ones at present unfurled in the universe, and that they were in great danger of being rolled up and put away. As every one knows, all he said was undoubtedly fact. The true Briton is the only moral person in the world. As a result Penelope felt that she wasn't a true Briton, and it made her very mournful, as it should have done. Nothing but her native obstinacy, which was imperial if not British, made her stick to her ideas, when her half-brother came to her and asked her crudely to "chuck" it. For, though he was humourous, it was past a joke now, and his admiration of Pen was tinged with alarm.
"I say, old girl, chuck it," said Bill.
"I can't! I won't!" said Penelope.
"Nobody believes you."
Penelope couldn't help that.
"I've spoken the truth."
"Why, even the other men don't believe it," said her brother. "Why, I met three of 'em to-day, and they all said, 'Oh, yes, we understand.' I say, Pen, this is too much. Chuck it!"
"Once for all, dear, I won't," said Penelope. "Much as I dislike this publicity, I see it is doing good. I get letters every day from scores of people saying that I am doing good. Three to-day declared that they were following my example in a registrar's office, and three more are thinking of it. One lady writes, saying she hopes I would go in for abolishing marriage altogether when public opinion was prepared for the extinction of the race. I don't agree with her, but she was enthusiastic, and enthusiasm is a great thing."
"I shall go yachting for a year," said Bill.
"I wish you would, dear Bill," replied Penelope. "It will do you good. You look quite pale, and I don't like you to do that. Have you any cough?"
"Damn it, no," said Brading, crossly.
And he went yachting again without publicity but with a lady. He was no true Briton, and never read the Dictator.
His departure took one thing off Pen's hands, but none of her lovers departed. Titania's words had sunk deep in their minds.
"She's not married," they said. "And if she says she is, it is only to try us."
They all interviewed Bob, and made things very pleasant for that rising statesman. If he believed Pen was married there was no reason to say so openly.
"Am I old enough to be a director, do you think?" he asked Gordon. "What I want is to make pots of money and rebuild Goring, which is a bally ruin."
"You don't answer my questions," said Gordon.
"Oh, about Pen," said Bob. "She's queer. I don't know, Mr. Gordon, I can't tell. She may be, for all I know. She's so clever, I don't know that she hasn't married you, and put you up to coming and asking me questions."
Gordon couldn't help grinning.
"I think you'll be a director of something some day," said he. "I can't make you one now, but if you have a hundred pounds I'll invest it in something for you, my son, that will make your hair curl."
"Like yours?" asked Bob, curiously, and Gordon flinched.
"Well," went on Bob, without waiting for an answer, "I haven't a hundred pounds, but I've an idea how to get it."
"Yes?" said the financier. "What's your idea, Bob?"
"It's a safe and a certain investment, is it?"
"Why, of course," replied Gordon.
"Then I'll tell you what, you lend it me," said Bob, brightly, "and invest it for me."
"Damned if I don't," cried Gordon. "Bob, when you are twenty-one I'll make you a director and ask your advice! And you'll come and tell me if you find out anything about Lady Penelope?"
Bob looked at him and shook his head.
"I say, you're so clever, I don't know how to take you. I dare say it's you!"
The flattered financier smiled.
"Oh, by the way," said Bob, rather in a hurry, "I suppose I should get nearly as much if I invested ninety pounds as if I put in a hundred?"
"Nearly," said Gordon, who hoped to be let off a little, "only ten per cent. less."
"That'll do me," said Bob. "Then you can give me the tenner now, Mr. Gordon, and put in the rest for me."
"I wish I had a boy like that," said Gordon. He went away ten pounds poorer, but with a great admiration for Bob, who was determined to restore the faded splendour of Goring.
"Hanged if I know who it is," said Bob. "It may be Gordon after all. And every one but De Vere and Bramber have been at me. Is it one of these?"
He had a remarkable list of all those who had pretended to Penelope's hand, for he was very curious, like all the rest of the world. He was also a little sore with Pen for not confiding in him.
"I told her I'd find out," he said, "and I will."
This was his list, and a curious document it was, written in a big, round hand that "old Guth" could never get him to modify. His spelling was almost ducal in its splendour.
"Plant. It isn't Mr. Plant, because he said would I like to go out in a motor, a new one, ninety-horse power, and I said rather, if he'd let her rip. And he looked anshious I thought. He tiped me.
"Goby. It isn't Goby, Goby says he'll always be my friend. He said had I another pony not sound, to experiment with. He stamped up and down, some. He tiped me.
"Williams. It isn't Williams, he took me to lunch and told me lots of things about the Chinese that his paper wouldn't print. They were orful. He said if I'd keep in with him he knew worse. He didn't tip me this time because the lunch was so much. I had turtell three times.
"Rivaulx. It isn't the Frenchy because he tore his hair, and said I could go up in a baloon any day. At least, he didn't tear his hair; it's too short. He keeps it up with Gordon too but looks horrid. He tiped me.
"Carew. It isn't him. He's very anxshus and says he can't paint: says the crittics are right. He was a sad sight to see, walking around in his studio. He said would I sit to him for an angel. He stops walking and tries to do Pen quick. I think it's muck. I wouldn't like a tip from him, for if an artist can't paint through grief what becomes of him? Do the others buy him for the Chantrey Bequest?"
"That's the lot so far," said Bob. And he added to his notes:
"Gordon. It isn't Gordon. He lent me a hundred pounds to invest in something to make hair curl. I said make it ninety and give me ten now, and he did. He didn't tip me, but I don't think him mean on that account."
"That leaves only De Vere and Bramber," said Bob, "and she never seemed much stuck on either to my mind. But if they don't say anything to me I shall begin to suspect."
He said so to Bradstock, who called him a young devil.
But about three days later Bob added to his notes:
"Bramber. It isn't Bramber. I met him in the park. He took me to the House and gave me a beastly lunch. But he didn't notice it as he couldn't eat and looked very pale and savidge. He tiped me.
"De Vere. It's not the poetry rotter. He wants me to stay with him and look after the dogs. He said if I had a sick one he'd rather have it than not. He said he was desprit. I don't know why, but suppose it's Pen. He tiped me."
"Now where am I at?" he said, blankly. "I've written down it isn't any of 'em. And that's what granny says. But I don't believe her."
He chewed his pencil till it was in rags, and then a sudden idea struck him.
"I'll buy all Sherlock Holmes and read him right through," said Bob. "That's the way to find out anything. I wish I knew the man that wrote him. I wonder if De Vere knows him? I'll ask Baker to get a sick dog from the vet's, and I'll go down and stay with De Vere if I can make granny say 'yes.' I wonder why old De Vere wants a sick dog, though. I can't understand poets."
It was no wonder Gordon wished he had a boy like Bob.