He once told me that
he had had no personal life to speak of since his fortieth year,
but had had more than was good for him before. London closed the
parenthesis and exhibited him in relations; one of the most
inevitable of these being that in which he found himself to Mrs.
Weeks Wimbush, wife of the boundless brewer and proprietress of the
universal menagerie. In this establishment, as everybody knows, on
occasions when the crush is great, the animals rub shoulders freely
with the spectators and the lions sit down for whole evenings with
the lambs.
It had been ominously clear to me from the first that in Neil
Paraday this lady, who, as all the world agreed, was tremendous
fun, considered that she had secured a prime attraction, a creature
of almost heraldic oddity. Nothing could exceed her enthusiasm
over her capture, and nothing could exceed the confused
apprehensions it excited in me. I had an instinctive fear of her
which I tried without effect to conceal from her victim, but which
I let her notice with perfect impunity. Paraday heeded it, but she
never did, for her conscience was that of a romping child. She was
a blind violent force to which I could attach no more idea of
responsibility than to the creaking of a sign in the wind.
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