Then paragraphs got
about. The World showed us up in a sarcastic article; and Truth,
which has always been terribly severe upon Sir Charles and all the
other South Africans, had a pungent set of verses on "High Art in
Kimberley." By this means, as we suppose, the affair became known
to Colonel Clay himself; for a week or two later my brother-in-law
received a cheerful little note on scented paper from our persistent
sharper. It was couched in these terms:--
"Oh, you innocent infant!
"Bless your ingenuous little heart! And did it believe, then, it
had positively caught the redoubtable colonel? And had it ready a
nice little pinch of salt to put upon his tail? And is it true its
respected name is Sir Simple Simon? How heartily we have laughed,
White Heather and I, at your neat little ruses! It would pay you,
by the way, to take White Heather into your house for six months
to instruct you in the agreeable sport of amateur detectives. Your
charming naivete quite moves our envy. So you actually imagined a
man of my brains would condescend to anything so flat and stale as
the silly and threadbare Old Master deception! And this in the
so-called nineteenth century! O sancta simplicitas! When again
shall such infantile transparency be mine? When, ah, when? But never
mind, dear friend.
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