Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. “John, of course I forgive you if it is what you need from me. ” Their agreement so far seemed remarkable, and yet as a home-coming the thing was a little lacking in warmth. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way. She was my first love. Catch him, she begged silently. To preach a fine sermon every Sunday so that he would lose neither the art nor the impulse; and this child, in secret rebellion, taking it down in long hand during odd hours in the week! Preaching grandiloquently before a few score natives who understood little beyond the gestures, for the single purpose of warding off disintegration! It reminded the doctor of a stubborn retreat; from barricade to barricade, grimly fighting to keep the enemy at bay, that insidious enemy of the white man in the South Seas—inertia. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. I'm no great judge of these articles, Ma'am; but I trust to your honour not to palm off paste upon me.
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