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twg_000000045100 | for three months. I may come back in September. Can't I send you something--do something that you'd like? I count on you to ask me at any time if there's anything in the world I could do for you, no matter what!' No woman could help being really pleased at such whole-hearted devotion and such Bluebeard-like views--especially when they were | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045101 | not going to be carried out. Edith was thrilled by the passionate emotion she felt near her. How cold it would be when he had gone! He _was_ nice, handsome, clever--a darling! 'Don't forget me, Aylmer. I don't want you to forget me. Later on we'll have a real friendship.' '_Friendship!_ Don't use that word. It's so false--such humbug--for _me_ | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045102 | at any rate. To say I could care for you as a friend is simply blasphemy! How can it be possible for _me_? But I'll try. Thanks for _any_thing! You're an angel--I'll try.' 'And it's horribly inconsistent, and no doubt very wicked of me, but, do you know, I should be rather pained if I heard you had fallen in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045103 | love with someone else.' 'Ah, that would be impossible!' he cried. 'Never--never! It's the real thing; there never was anyone like you, there never will be. Let me look at you once more....Oh, Edith! And now--here we are.' Edith took away her hand. 'Your scarf's coming off, you'll catch cold,' said Aylmer, and as he was trying, rather awkwardly, to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045104 | put the piece of blue chiffon round her head he drew the dear head to him and kissed her harshly. She could not protest; it was too final; besides, they were arriving; the cab stopped. Vincy came to the door. 'Welcome to Normanhurst!' cried Vincy, with unnecessary facetiousness, giving them a slightly anxious glance. He thought Edith had more colour | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045105 | than usual. Aylmer was pale. * * * * * The supper was an absolute and complete failure; the guests displayed the forced gaiety and real depression, and constrained absentmindedness, of genuine and hopeless boredom. Except for Lady Everard's ceaseless flow of empty prattle the pauses would have been too obvious. Edith, for whom it was a dreary anti-climax, was | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045106 | rather silent. Aylmer talked more, and a little more loudly, than usual, and looked worn. Bruce, whom champagne quickly saddened, became vaguely reminiscent and communicative about old, dead, forgotten grievances of the past, while Vincy, who was a little shocked at what he saw (and he always saw everything), did his very best, just saving the entertainment from being a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045107 | too disastrous frost. 'Well! Good luck!' said Aylmer, lifting his glass with sham conviviality.' I start tomorrow morning by the Orient Express.' 'Hooray!' whispered Vincy primly. 'Doesn't it sound romantic and exciting?' Edith said. 'The two words together are so delightfully adventurous. Orient--the languid East, and yet express--quickness, speed. It's a fascinating blend of ideas.' 'Whether it's adventurous or not | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045108 | isn't the question, my dear girl; I only wish we were going too,' said Bruce, with a sigh; 'but, I never can get away from my wretched work, to have any fun, like you lucky chaps, with no responsibilities or troubles! I suppose perhaps we may take the children to Westgate for Whitsuntide, and that's about all. Not that there | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045109 | isn't quite a good hotel there, and of course it's all right for me, because I shall play golf all day and run up to town when I want to. Still, it's very different from one of these jolly long journeys that you gay bachelors can indulge in.' 'But I'm not a gay bachelor. My boy is coming to join | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045110 | me in the summer holidays, wherever I am,' said Aylmer. 'Ah, but that's not the point. I should like to go with you now--at once. Don't you wish we were both going, Edith? Why aren't we going with him tomorrow?' 'Surely June's just the nice time in London, Bruce,' said Vincy, in his demure voice. 'Won't it be terribly hot?' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045111 | said Lady Everard vaguely. She always thought every place must be terribly hot. 'Venice? Are you going to Venice? Delightful! The Viennese are so charming, and the Austrian officers--Oh, you're going to Sicily first? Far too hot. Paul La France--the young singer, you know--told me that when he was in Sicily his voice completely altered; the heat quite affected the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045112 | _velout_ of his voice, as the French call it--and what a voice it is at its best! It's not the _highest_ tenor, of course, but the medium is so wonderfully soft and well developed. I don't say for a moment that he will ever be a Caruso, but as far as he goes--and he goes pretty far, mind--it's really wonderful. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045113 | You're coming on Wednesday, aren't you, dear Mrs Ottley? Ah!'... She stopped and held up her small beaded fan, 'what's that the band's playing? I know it so well; everyone knows it; it's either _Pagliacci_ or _Bohme_, or _some_thing. No, isn't it really? What is it? All the old Italian operas are coming in again, by the way, you know, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045114 | my dear... _Rigoletto_, _Lucia_, _Traviata_--the _bel canto_--that sort of thing; there's nothing like it for showing off the voice. Wagner's practically gone out (at least what _I_ call out), and I always said Debussy wouldn't last. Paul La France still clings to Brahms--Brahms suits his voice better than anyone else. He always falls back on Brahms, and dear de Lara; | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045115 | and Tosti; of course, Tosti. I remember...' * * * * * Aylmer and his guests had reached the stage of being apparently all lost in their own thoughts, and the conversation had been practically reduced to a disjointed monologue on music by Lady Everard, when the lights began to be lowered, and the party broke up. 'I'm coming to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045116 | see you so soon,' said Vincy. The Letter It was about a fortnight later. Edith and Bruce, from different directions, arrived at the same moment at their door, and went up together in the lift. On the little hall-table was a letter addressed to Edith. She took it up rather quickly, and went into the drawing-room. Bruce followed her. 'That | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045117 | a letter, Edith?' 'What do you suppose it is, Bruce?' 'What _could_ I have supposed it was, Edith? A plum pudding?' He laughed very much. 'You are very humorous today, Bruce.' She sat down with her hat, veil and gloves on, holding the letter. She did not go to her room, because that would leave her no further retreat. Bruce | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045118 | sat down exactly opposite to her, with his coat and gloves on. He slowly drew off one glove, folded it carefully, and put it down. Then he said amiably, a little huskily: 'Letter from a friend?' 'I beg your pardon? What did you say, dear?' He raised his voice unnecessarily: 'I Said A LETTER FROM A FRIEND!' She started. 'Oh | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045119 | yes! I heard this time.' 'Edith, I know of an excellent aurist in Bond Street. I wish you'd go and see him. I'll give you the address.' 'I know of a very good elocutionist in Oxford Street. I think I would go and have some lessons, if I were you, Bruce; the summer classes are just beginning. They teach you | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045120 | to speak so clearly, to get your voice over the footlights, as it were. I think all men require to study oratory and elocution. It comes in so useful!' Bruce lowered his voice almost to a whisper. 'Are you playing the fool with me?' She nodded amiably in the manner of a person perfectly deaf, but who is pretending to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045121 | hear. 'Yes, dear; yes, quite right.' 'What do you mean by 'quite right'?' He unfastened his coat and threw it open, glaring at her a little. 'Who--me? _I_ don't know.' 'Who is that letter from, Edith?' he said breezily, in a tone of sudden careless and cheery interest. 'I haven't read it yet, Bruce,' she answered, in the same tone, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045122 | brightly. 'Oh. Why don't you read it?' 'Oh! I shall presently.' 'When?' 'When I've opened it.' He took off his other glove, folded it with the first one, made them into a ball, and threw it across the room against the window, while his colour deepened. 'Oh, do you want to have a game? Shall I send for Archie?' 'Edith, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045123 | why don't you take off your hat?' 'I can't think. Why don't you take off your coat?' 'I haven't time. Show me that letter.' 'What letter?' 'Don't prevaricate with me.' Bruce had now definitely lost his temper. 'I can stand anything except prevarication. Anything in the world, but prevarication, I can endure, with patience. But _not_ that! As if you | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045124 | didn't know perfectly well there's only one letter I want to see.' 'Really?' 'Who's your letter from?' 'How should I know?' Edith got up and went towards the door. Bruce was beforehand with her and barred the way, standing with his arms outstretched and his back to the door. 'Edith, I'm pained and surprised at your conduct!' 'Conduct!' she exclaimed. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045125 | 'Don't echo my words! I will _not_ be echoed, do you hear?... Behaviour, then, if you prefer the word.... Why don't you wish me to see that letter?' Edith quickly looked at the letter. Until this moment she had had an unreasonable and nervous terror that Aylmer might have forgotten his intention of writing what he called officially, and might | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045126 | have written her what she now inwardly termed a lot of nonsense. But she now saw she had made a mistake: it was not his handwriting nor his postmark. She became firmer. 'Look here Bruce,' she said, in a decided voice, quietly. 'We have been married eight years, and I consider you ought to trust me sufficiently to allow me | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045127 | to open my own letters.' 'Oh, you do, do you? What next? What next! I suppose the next thing you'll wish is to be a suffragette.' 'The question,' said Edith, in the most cool, high, irritating voice she could command, 'really, of votes for women hardly enters into our argument here. As a matter of fact, I take no interest | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045128 | in any kind of politics, and, I may be entirely wrong, but if I were compelled to take sides on the subject, I should be an anti-suffragist.' 'Oh, you would, would you? That's as well to know! That's interesting. Give me that letter.' 'Do you think you have the right to speak to me like that?' 'Edith,' he said rather | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045129 | pathetically, trying to control himself. 'I beg you, I _implore_ you to let me see the letter! Hang it all! You know perfectly well, old girl, how fond I am of you. I may worry you a bit sometimes, but you know my heart's all right.' 'Of course, Bruce; I'm not finding fault with you. I only want to read | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045130 | my own letter, that's all.' 'But if I let you out of this room without having shown it me, then if there's something you don't want me to see, you'll tear it up or chuck it in the fire.' Edith was quite impressed at this flash of prophetic insight. She admitted to herself he was right. 'It's entirely a matter | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045131 | of principle,' she said after another reassuring look at the envelope. 'It's only a matter of principle, dear, I'm twenty-eight years old, we've been married eight years; you leave the housekeeping, the whole ordering of the children's education, and heaps of other quite important things, entirely to me; in fact, you lead almost the life of a schoolboy, without any | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045132 | of the tiresome part, and with freedom, going to school in the day and amusing yourself in the evening, while everything disagreeable and important is thought of and seen to for you. You only have the children with you when they amuse you. I have all the responsibility; I have to be patient, thoughtful--in fact, you leave things to me | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045133 | more than most men do to their wives, Bruce. You won't be bothered even to look at an account--to do a thing. But I'm not complaining.' 'Oh, you're not! It sounded a little like it.' 'But it isn't. I don't _mind_ all this responsibility, but I ought, at least, to be allowed to read my letters.' 'Well, darling, you shall, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045134 | as a rule. Look here, old girl, you shall. I promise you, faithfully, dear. Oh, Edith, you're looking awfully pretty; I like that hat. Look here, I promise you, dear, I'll _never_ ask you again, never as long as I live. But I've a fancy to read this particular letter. Why not just gratify it? It's a very harmless whim.' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045135 | His tone suddenly changed. 'What do you suppose there's _in_ the damned letter? Something you're jolly well anxious I shouldn't see.' She made a step forward. He rushed at her, snatched the letter out of her hand, and went to the window with it. She went into her own room, shut the door, and threw herself on the bed, her | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045136 | whole frame shaking with suppressed laughter. * * * * * Bruce, alone, with trembling fingers tore open the envelope. Never in his life had he been opposed by Edith before in this way. He read these words in stereotyped writing: _'Van will call on receipt of post-card. The Lavender Laundry hopes that you will give them a trial, as | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045137 | their terms are extremely mod--'_ Bruce rushed to the door and called out: 'Edith! Sorry! Edie, I say, I'm sorry. Come back.' There was no answer. He pushed the letter under the door of her room, and said through the keyhole: 'Edith, look here, I'm just going for a little walk. I'll be back to dinner. Don't be angry.' Bruce | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045138 | brought her home a large bunch of Parma violets. But neither of them ever referred to the question again, and for some time there was a little less of the refrain of 'Am I master in my own house, or am I not?' The next morning, when a long letter came from Aylmer, from Spain, Edith read it at breakfast | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045139 | and Bruce didn't ask a single question. However, she left it on his plate, as if by mistake. He might just as well read it. Mavis Argles Vincy had the reputation of spending his fortune with elaborate yet careful lavishness, buying nothing that he did not enjoy, and giving away everything he did not want. At the same time his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045140 | friends occasionally wondered on what he _did_ spend both his time and his money. He was immensely popular, quite sought after socially; but he declined half his invitations and lived a rather quiet existence in the small flat, with its Oriental decorations and violent post-impressions and fierce Chinese weapons, high up in Victoria Street. Vincy really concealed under an amiable | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045141 | and gentle exterior the kindest heart of any man in London. There was 'more in him than met the eye,' as people say, and, frank and confidential as he was to his really intimate friends, at least one side of his life was lived in shadow. It was his secret romance with a certain young girl artist, whom he saw | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045142 | rarely, for sufficient reasons. He was not devoted to her in the way that he was to Edith, for whom he had the wholehearted enthusiasm of a loyal friend, and the idolising worship of a fanatic admirer. It was perhaps Vincy's nature, a little, to sacrifice himself for anyone he was fond of. He spent a great deal of time | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045143 | thinking out means of helping materially the young art-student, and always he succeeded in this object by his elaborate and tactful care. For he knew she was very, very poor, and that her pride was of an old-fashioned order--she never said she was hard up, as every modern person does, whether rich or poor, but he knew that she really | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045144 | lacked what he considered very nearly--if not quite--the necessities of life. Vincy's feeling for her was a curious one. He had known her since she was sixteen (she was now twenty-four). Yet he did not trust her, and she troubled him. He had met her at a studio at a time when he had thought of studying art seriously. Sometimes, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045145 | something about her worried and wearied him, yet he couldn't do without her for long. The fact that he knew he was of great help to her fascinated him; he often thought that if she had been rich and he poor he would never wish to see her again. Certainly it was the touch of pathos in her life that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045146 | held him; also, of course, she was pretty, with a pale thin face, deep blue eyes, and rich dark red frizzy hair that was always coming down--the untidy hair of the art-student. He was very much afraid of compromising her, and _she_ was very much afraid of the elderly aunt with whom she lived. She had no parents, which made | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045147 | her more pathetic, but no more free. He could not go and see her, with any satisfaction to either of them, at _her_ home, though he did so occasionally. This was why she first went to see him at his flat. But these visits, as they were both placed, could, of course, happen rarely. Mavis Argles--this was the girl's extraordinary | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045148 | name--had a curious fascination for him. He was rather fond of her, yet the greatest wish he had in the world was to break it off. When with her he felt himself to be at once a criminal and a benefactor, a sinner and a saint. Theoretically, theatrically, and perhaps conventionally, his relations with her constituted him the villain of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045149 | the piece. Yet he behaved to her more like Don Quixote than Don Juan.... * * * * * One afternoon about four o'clock--he was expecting her--Vincy had arranged an elaborate tea on his little green marble dining-table. Everything was there that she liked. She was particularly attached to scones; he also had cream-cakes, sandwiches, sweets, chocolate and strawberries. As | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045150 | he heard the well-known slightly creaking step, his heart began to beat loudly--quick beats. He changed colour, smiled, and nervously went to the door. 'Here you are, Mavis!' He calmed her and himself by this banal welcome. He made a movement to help her off with her coat, but she stopped him, and he didn't insist, guessing that she supposed | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045151 | her blouse to be unfit for publication. She sat down on the sofa, and leaned back, looking at him with her pretty, weary, dreary, young, blue eyes. 'It seems such a long time since I saw you,' said Vincy. 'You're tired; I wish I had a lift.' 'I am tired,' she spoke in rather a hoarse voice always. 'And I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045152 | ought not to stop long.' 'Oh, stay a minute longer, won't you?' he asked. 'Well, I like that! I've only just this moment arrived!' 'Oh, Mavis, don't say that! Have some tea.' He waited on her till she looked brighter. 'How is Aunt Jessie?' 'Aunt Jessie's been rather ill.' 'Still that nasty pain?' asked Vincy. She stared at him, then | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045153 | laughed. 'As if you remember anything about it.' 'Oh, Mavis! I do remember it. I remember what was the matter with her quite well.' 'I bet you don't. What was it?' she asked, with childish eagerness. 'It was that wind round the heart that she gets sometimes. She told me about it. Nothing seems to shift it, either.' Mavis laughed--hoarse, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045154 | childlike laughter that brought tears to her eyes. 'It's a shame to make fun of Aunt Jessie; she's a very, very good sort.' 'Oh, good gracious, Mavis, if it comes to sorts, I'm sure she's quite at the top of the tree. But don't let's bother about her now.' 'What _do_ you want to bother about?' 'Couldn't you come out | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045155 | and dine with me, Mavis? It would be a change'--he was going to say 'for you', but altered it--'for me.' 'Oh no, Vincy; you can't take me out to dinner. I don't look up to the mark.' She looked in a glass. 'My hat--it's a very good hat--it cost more than you'd think--but it shows signs of wear.' 'Oh, that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045156 | reminds me,' began Vincy. 'What _do_ you think happened the other day? A cousin of mine who was up in London a little while bought a hat--it didn't suit her, and she insisted on giving it to me! She didn't know what to do to get rid of it! I'd given her something or other, for her birthday, and _she_ | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045157 | declared she would give this to _me_ for _my_ birthday, and so--I've got it on my hands.' 'What a very queer thing! It doesn't sound true.' 'No; does it? Do have some more tea, Mavis darling.' 'No, thanks; I'll have another cake.' 'May I smoke?' She laughed. 'Asking _me_! You do what you like in your own house.' 'It's yours,' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045158 | he answered, 'when you're here. And when you're not, even more,' he added as an afterthought. He struck a match; she laughed and said: 'I don't believe I understand you a bit.' 'Oh--I went to the play last night,' said Vincy. 'Oh, Mavis, it was such a wearing play.' 'All about nothing, I suppose? They always are, now.' 'Oh no. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045159 | It was all about everything. The people were _so_ clever; it was something cruel how clever they were. One man _did_ lay down the law! Oh, didn't he though! I don't hold with being bullied and lectured from the stage, do you, Mavis? It seems so unfair when you can't answer back.' 'Was it Bernard Shaw?' she asked. 'No; it | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045160 | wasn't; not this time; it was someone else. Oh, I do feel sometimes when I'm sitting in my stall, so good and quiet, holding my programme nicely and sitting up straight to the table, as it were, and then a fellow lets me have it, tells me where I'm wrong and all that; I _should_ like to stand up and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045161 | give a back answer, wouldn't you?' 'No; I'd like to see _you_ do it! Er--what colour is that hat that your cousin gave you?' 'Oh, colour?' he said thoughtfully, smoking. 'Let me see--what colour was it? It doesn't seem to me that it was any particular colour. It was a very curious colour. Sort of mole-colour. Or was it cerise? | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045162 | Or violet?... You wouldn't like to see it, would you?' 'Why, yes, I'd like to see it; I wouldn't try it on of course.' He opened the box. 'Why, what a jolly hat!' she exclaimed. 'You may not know it, but that would just suit me; it would go with my dress, too.' 'Fancy.' She took off her own hat, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045163 | and touched up her hair with her fingers, and tried on the other. Under it her eyes brightened in front of the glass; her colour rose; she changed as one looked at her--she was sixteen again--the child he had first met at the Art School. 'Don't you think it suits me?' she said, turning round. 'Yes, I think you look | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045164 | very charming in it. Shall I put it back?' There was a pause. 'I sha'n't know what on earth to do with it,' he said discontentedly. 'It's so silly having a hat about in a place like this. Of course you wouldn't dare to keep it, I suppose? It does suit you all right, you know; it would be awfully | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045165 | kind of you.' 'What a funny person you are, Vincy. I _should_ like to keep it. What could I tell Aunt Jessie?' 'Ah, well, you see, that's where it is! I suppose it wouldn't do for you to tell her the truth.' 'What do you mean by the truth?' 'I mean what I told you--how my cousin, Cissie Cavanack,' he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045166 | smiled a little as he invented this name, 'came up to town, chose the wrong hat, didn't know what to do with it--and, you know!' 'I could tell her all that, of course.' 'All right,' said Vincy, putting the other hat--the old one--in the box.' Where shall we dine?' 'Oh, Vincy, I think you're very sweet to me, but how | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045167 | late dare I get back to Ravenscourt Park?' 'Why not miss the eight-five train?--then you'll catch the quarter to ten and get back at about eleven.' 'Which would you _rather_ I did?' 'Well, need you ask?' 'I don't know, Vincy. I have a curious feeling sometimes. I believe you're rather glad when I've gone--relieved!' 'Well, my dear,' he answered, 'look | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045168 | how you worry all the time! If you'd only have what I call a quiet set-down and a chat, without being always on the fidget, always looking either at the glass or at the clock, one might _not_ have that feeling.' Her colour rose, and tears came to her eyes. 'Oh, then you _are_ glad when I'm gone!' She pouted. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045169 | 'You don't care for me a bit, Vincy,' she said, in a plaintive voice. He sat down next to her on the little striped sofa, and took her hand. 'Oh, give over, Mavis, do give over! I wish you wouldn't carry on like that; you do carry on, Mavis dear, don't you? Some days you go on something cruel, you | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045170 | do really. Reely, I mean. Now, cheer up and be jolly. Give a kiss to the pretty gentleman, and look at all these pretty good-conduct stripes on the sofa! There! That's better.' 'Don't speak as if I were a baby!' 'Do you mind telling me what we're quarrelling about, my dear? I only ask for information.' 'Oh, we're _not_. You're | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045171 | awfully sweet. You know I love you, Vincy.' 'I thought, perhaps, it was really all right.' 'Sometimes I feel miserable and jealous.' He smiled. 'Ah! What are you jealous of, Mavis?' 'Oh, everything--everyone--all the people you meet.' 'Is that all? Well, you're the only person I ever meet--by appointment, at any rate.' 'Well--the Ottleys!' His eye instinctively travelled to a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045172 | photograph of Edith, all tulle and roses; a rather fascinating portrait. 'What about _her_?' asked Mavis. 'What price Mrs Ottley?' 'Really, Mavis!--What price? No price. Nothing about her; she's just a great friend of mine. I think I told you that before. ... What a frightfully bright light there is in the room,' Vincy said. He got up and drew | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045173 | the blind down. He came back to her. 'Your hair's coming down,' he remarked. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'But at the back it generally is.' 'Don't move--let me do it.' Pretending to arrange it, he took all the hairpins out, and the cloud of dark red hair fell down on her shoulders. 'I like your hair, Mavis.' * * * | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045174 | * * 'It seems too awful I should have been with you such a long time this afternoon,' she exclaimed. 'It _isn't_ long.' 'And sometimes it seems so dreadful to think I can't be with you always.' 'Yes, doesn't it? Mavis dear, will you do up your hair and come out to dinner?' 'Vincy dear, I think I'd better not, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045175 | because of Aunt Jessie.' 'Oh, very well; all right. Then you will another time?' 'Oh, you don't want me to stay?' 'Yes, I do; do stay.' 'No, next time--next Tuesday.' 'Very well, very well.' He took a dark red carnation out of one of the vases and pinned it on to her coat. 'The next time I see you,' she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045176 | said, 'I want to have a long, _long_ talk.' 'Oh yes; we must, mustn't we?' He took her downstairs, put her into a cab. It was half-past six. He felt something false, worrying, unreliable and incalculable in Mavis. She didn't seem real.... He wished she were fortunate and happy; but he wished even more that he were never going to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045177 | see her again. And still!... He walked a little way, then got into a taxi and drove to see Edith. When he was in this peculiar condition of mind--the odd mixture of self-reproach, satisfaction, amusement and boredom that he felt now --he always went to see Edith, throwing himself into the little affairs of her life as if he had | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045178 | nothing else on his mind. He was a little anxious about Edith. It seemed to him that since Aylmer had been away she had altered a little. More of the Mitchells Edith had become an immense favourite with the Mitchells. They hardly ever had any entertainment without her. Her success with their friends delighted Mrs Mitchell, who was not capable | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045179 | of commonplace feminine jealousy, and who regarded Edith as a find of her own. She often reproached Winthrop, her husband, for having known Bruce eight years without discovering his charming wife. One evening they had a particularly gay party. Immediately after dinner Mitchell had insisted on dressing up, and was solemnly announced in his own house as Prince Gonoff, a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045180 | Russian noble. He had a mania for disguising himself. He had once travelled five hundred miles under the name of Prince Gotoffski, in a fur coat, a foreign accent, a false moustache and a special saloon carriage. Indeed, only his wife knew all the secrets of Mitchell's wild early career of unpractical jokes, to some of which he still clung. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045181 | When he was younger he had carried it pretty far. She encouraged him, yet at the same time she acted as ballast, and was always explaining his jokes; sometimes she was in danger of explaining him entirely away. She loved to tell of his earlier exploits. How often, when younger, he had collected money for charities (particularly for the Deaf | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045182 | and Dumb Cats' League, in which he took special interest), by painting halves of salmon and ships on fire on the cold grey pavement! Armed with an accordion, and masked to the eyes, he had appeared at Eastbourne, and also at the Henley Regatta, as a Mysterious Musician. At the regatta he had been warned off the course, to his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045183 | great pride and joy. Mrs Mitchell assured Edith that his bath-chair race with a few choice spirits was still talked of at St Leonard's (bath-chairmen, of course, are put in the chairs, and you pull them along). Mr Mitchell was beaten by a short head, but that, Mrs Mitchell declared, was really most unfair, because he was so handicapped--his man | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045184 | was much stouter than any of the others--and the race, by rights, should have been run again. When he was at Oxford he had been well known for concealing under a slightly rowdy exterior the highest spirits of any of the undergraduates. He was looked upon as the most fascinating of _farceurs_. It seems that he had distinguished himself there | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045185 | less for writing Greek verse, though he was good at it, than for the wonderful variety of fireworks that he persistently used to let off under the dean's window. It was this fancy of his that led, first, to his popularity, and afterwards to the unfortunate episode of his being sent down; soon after which he had married privately, chiefly | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045186 | in order to send his parents an announcement of his wedding in _The Morning Post_, as a surprise. Some people had come in after dinner--for there was going to be a little _sauterie intime_, as Mrs Mitchell called it, speaking in an accent of her own, so appalling that, as Vincy observed, it made it sound quite improper. Edith watched, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045187 | intensely amused, as she saw that there were really one or two people present who, never having seen Mitchell before, naturally did not recognise him now, so that the disguise was considered a triumph. There was something truly agreeable in the deference he was showing to a peculiarly yellow lady in red, adorned with ugly real lace, and beautiful false | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045188 | hair. She was obviously delighted with the Russian prince. 'Winthrop is a wonderful man!' said Mrs Mitchell to Edith, as she watched her husband proudly. 'Who would dream he was clean-shaven! Look at that moustache! Look at the wonderful way his coat doesn't fit; he's got just that Russian touch with his clothes; I don't know how he's done it, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045189 | I'm sure. How I wish dear Aylmer Ross was here; he _would_ appreciate it so much.' 'Yes, I wish he were,' said Edith. 'I can't think what he went away for. I suppose he heard the East a-calling, and all that sort of thing. The old wandering craving you read of came over him again, I suppose. Well, let's hope | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045190 | he'll meet some charming girl and bring her back as his bride. Where is he now, do you know, Mrs Ottley?' 'In Armenia, I fancy,' said Edith. 'Oh, well, we don't want him to bring home an Armenian, do we? What colour are they? Blue, or brown, or what? I hope no-one will tell Lady Hartland that is my husband. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045191 | She'll expect to see Winthrop tonight; she never met him, you know; but he really ought to be introduced to her. I think I shall tell him to go and undress, when they've had a little dancing and she's been down to supper.' Lady Hartland was the yellow lady in red, who thought she was flirting with a fascinating Slav. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045192 | 'She's a sort of celebrity,' continued Mrs Mitchell. 'She was an American once, and she married Sir Charles Hartland for her money. I hate these interested marriages, don't you?--especially when they're international. Sir Charles isn't here; he's such a sweet boy. He's a friend of Mr Cricker; it's through Mr Cricker I know them, really. Lady Everard has taken _such_ | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045193 | a fancy to young Cricker; she won't leave him alone. After all he's _my_ friend, and as he's not musical I don't see that she has any special right to him; but he's there every Wednesday now, and does his dances on their Sunday evenings too. He's got a new one--lovely, quite lovely--an imitation of Lydia Kyasht as a water-nymph. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045194 | I wanted him to do it here tonight, but Lady Everard has taken him to the opera. Now, won't you dance? Your husband promised he would. You both look so young!' Edith refused to dance. She sat in a corner with Vincy and watched the dancers. By special permission, as it was so _intime_, the Turkey Trot was allowed. Bruce | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045195 | wanted to attempt it with Myra Mooney, but she was horrified, and insisted on dancing the _trois-temps_ to a jerky American two-step. 'Edith,' said Vincy; 'I think you're quieter than you used to be. Sometimes you seem rather absent-minded.' 'Am I? I'm sorry; there's nothing so tedious to other people. Why do you think I'm more serious?' 'I think you | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045196 | miss Aylmer.' 'Yes, I do. He gave a sort of meaning to everything. He's always interesting. And there's something about him--I don't know what it is. Oh, don't be frightened, Vincy, I'm not going to use the word personality. Isn't that one of the words that ought to be forbidden altogether? In all novels and newspapers that poor, tired word | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045197 | is always cropping up.' 'Yes, that and magnetism, and temperament, and technique. Let's cut out technique altogether. Don't let there be any, that's the best way; then no-one can say anything about it. I'm fed up with it. Aren't you?' 'Oh, I don't agree with you at all. I think there ought to be any amount of technique, and personality, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045198 | and magnetism, and temperament. I don't mind _how_ much technique there is, as long as nobody talks about it. But neither of these expressions is quite so bad as that dreadful thing you always find in American books, and that lots of people have caught up--especially palmists and manicures--mentality.' 'Yes, mentality's very depressing,' said Vincy. 'I could get along nicely | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045199 | without it, I think.... I had a long letter from Aylmer today. He seemed unhappy.' 'I had a few lines yesterday,' said Edith. 'He said he was having a very good time. What did he say to you?' 'Oh, he wrote, frankly to _me_.' 'Bored, is he?' 'Miserable; enamoured of sorrow; got the hump; frightfully off colour; wants to come | 60 | gutenberg |
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