Ernest could do all
this just as well as they could, and now, as he lay on the grass,
speeches, some one or other of which was as certain to come as the sun to
set, kept running in his head till they confuted the idea of telling the
truth by reducing it to an absurdity. Truth might be heroic, but it was
not within the range of practical domestic politics.
Having settled then that he was to tell a lie, what lie should he tell?
Should he say he had been robbed? He had enough imagination to know that
he had not enough imagination to carry him out here. Young as he was,
his instinct told him that the best liar is he who makes the smallest
amount of lying go the longest way--who husbands it too carefully to
waste it where it can be dispensed with. The simplest course would be to
say that he had lost the watch, and was late for dinner because he had
been looking for it. He had been out for a long walk--he chose the line
across the fields that he had actually taken--and the weather being very
hot, he had taken off his coat and waistcoat; in carrying them over his
arm his watch, his money, and his knife had dropped out of them. He had
got nearly home when he found out his loss, and had run back as fast as
he could, looking along the line he had followed, till at last he had
given it up; seeing the carriage coming back from the station, he had let
it pick him up and bring him home.
Pages:
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295