"You can imagine it pleases me. I don't see how he could have been
luckier. Dr. Derwent is one of the finest men I know, and his
daughter is worthy of him."
"She is, I am sure," said Piers, in a balanced voice, which sounded
mere civility.
And when silence had lasted rather too long, the host having fallen
into reverie, he added:
"Will it take place soon?"
"Ah--the wedding? About Christmas, I think. Arnold is looking for
a house. By the bye, you know young Derwent--Eustace?"
Piers answered that he had only the slightest acquaintance with the
young man.
"Not brilliant, I think," said Mr. Jacks musingly. "But amiable,
straight. I don't know that he'll do much at the Bar."
Again he lost himself for a little, his knitted brows seeming to
indicate an anxious thought.
"Now you shall tell me anything you care to, about business," said
the host, when they had seated themselves in the library. "And after
that I have something to show you--something you'll like to see, I
think."
Otway's curiosity was at a loss when presently he saw his host take
from a drawer a little packet of papers.
"I had forgotten all about these," said Mr. Jacks. "They are
manuscripts of your father; writings of various kinds which he sent
me in the early fifties. Turning out my old papers, I came across
them the other day, and thought I would give them to you."
He rustled the faded sheets, glancing over them with a sad smile.
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