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twg_000000045400 | have a certain _flair_ for what's going to be a success in that direction, and of course I've been everywhere and seen everything. I've a certain natural knowledge of life, too, and keep well up to date with everything that's going on. I knew about the Hendon Divorce Case long before anyone else, though it never came off after all, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045401 | but that's not the point. But then I'm so discreet; people tell me things. At any rate, I always _know_.' Indeed, Lady Everard firmly believed herself to be a great authority on most subjects, but especially on contemporary gossip. This was a delusion. In reality she had that marvellous talent for not knowing things, that gift for ignorance, and genius | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045402 | for inaccuracy so frequently seen in that cultured section of society of which she was so popular and distinguished a member. It is a talent that rarely fails to please, particularly in a case like her own. There is always a certain satisfaction in knowing that a woman of position and wealth, who plumes herself on her early knowledge and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045403 | special information, is absolutely and entirely devoid of the one and incorrect in the other. A marked ignorance in a professionally well-informed person has always something touching and appealing to those who are able, if not willing, to set that person right. It was taken for granted among her acquaintances, and probably was one of the qualities that endeared her | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045404 | to them most, that dear Lady Everard was generally positive and always wrong. 'Yes, I do know most things, perhaps,' she said complacently. 'And one thing I know is that this woman friend of yours is making you perfectly miserable. You're longing to shake it off. Ah, I know you! You've far more real happiness in going to the opera | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045405 | with me than even in seeing her, and the more she pursues you the less you like it. Am I not right?' 'Yes, I suppose so. But as a matter of fact, Lady Everard, if she didn't--well--what you might call make a dash for it, I shouldn't worry about her at all.' 'Men,' continued Lady Everard, not listening, 'only like | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045406 | coldness; coldness, reserve. The only way in the world to draw a man on is to be always out to him, or to go away, and never even let him hear your name mentioned.' 'I daresay there's a lot in that,' said Cricker, wondering why she did not try that plan with young La France. 'Women of the present day,' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045407 | she continued, growing animated, 'make such a terrible, terrible mistake I What do they do when they like a young man? Oh, I know! They write to him at his club; they call at his rooms and leave messages; they telephone whenever they can. The more he doesn't answer their invitations the more they invite him. It's appalling! And what's | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045408 | the result? Men are becoming cooler and cooler-- as a class, I mean. Of course, there are exceptions. But it's such a mistake of women to run after the few young men there are. There are such a tremendous lot of girls and married women nowadays, there are so many more of them.' 'Well, perhaps that's why they do it,' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045409 | said Cricker rather stupidly. 'At any rate--oh, well, I know if my friend hadn't been so jolly nice to me at first and kept it up so--oh, well, you know what I mean--kept on keeping on, if I may use the expression, I should have drifted away from her ages ago. Because, you see, supposing I'm beginning to think about | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045410 | something else, or somebody else, she doesn't stand it; she won't stand it. And the awkward part is, you see, her being _on_ the stage _and_ married makes the whole thing about as awkward as a case of that sort can possibly be.' 'I would not ask you her name for the world,' said Lady Everard smoothly. 'Of course I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045411 | know she's a beautiful young comedy actress, or is it tragedy? I wonder if I could guess her first name? Will you tell me if I guess right?' She looked arch. 'Oh, I say, I can't tell you who it is, Lady Everard; really not.' 'Only the first name? I don't _want_ you to tell me; I'm discretion itself, I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045412 | prefer not to know. The Christian name is not Margaretta, is it? Ah! no, I thought not. It's Irene Pettifer! There, I've guessed. The fact is, I always knew it, my dear boy. Your secret is safe with me. I'm the tomb! I--' 'Excuse me, Lady Everard,' said Cricker, with every sign of annoyance, 'it's no more Irene Pettifer than | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045413 | it's you yourself. Please believe me. First of all I don't _know_ Irene Pettifer; I've never even seen her photograph--she's not young, not married, and an entirely different sort of person.' 'What did I tell you? I knew it wasn't; I only said that to draw you. However, have a little more tea, or some iced coffee, it's so much | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045414 | more refreshing I always think. My dear Willie, I was only chaffing you. I knew perfectly well it wasn't either of the people I suggested. The point is, it seems to prey on your mind, and worry you, and you won't break it off.' 'But how can I?' 'I will dictate you a letter,' she said. 'Far be it from | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045415 | me to interfere, and I don't pretend to know more about this sort of thing than anybody else. At the same time, if you'll take it down just as I tell it, and send it off, you'll find it will do admirably. Have you got a pencil?' As if dully hypnotised, he took out a pencil and notebook. 'It would | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045416 | be awfully kind of you, Lady Everard. It might give me an idea anyway.' 'All right.' She leant back and half closed her eyes, as if in thought; then started up with one finger out. 'We must be quick, because I'm expecting someone presently,' she said. 'But we've got time for this. Now begin. July 7th, . Have you got | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045417 | that?' 'Yes, I've got that.' 'Or, perhaps, just Thursday. Thursday looks more casual, more full of feeling than the exact date. Got Thursday?' 'Yes, but it isn't Thursday, it's Friday.' 'All right, Friday, or any day you like. The day is not the point. You can send it tomorrow, or any time you like. Wednesday. My dearest Irene.' 'Her name's | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045418 | not Irene.' 'Oh no, I forgot. Take that out. Dear Margaretta. Circumstances have occurred since I last had the pleasure of seeing you that make it absolutely impossible that I could ever meet you again.' 'Oh, I say!' 'Go on. Ever see you or meet you again. You wish to be kind to her, I suppose?' 'Oh yes.' 'Then say: | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045419 | Duty has to come between us, but God knows I wish you well.' Tears were beginning to come to Lady Everard's eyes, and she spoke with a break in her voice. 'I wish you well, Irene.' 'It's not Irene.' 'I wish you well, Margaretta. Some day in the far distant future you'll think of me, and be thankful for what | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045420 | I have done. It's for your good and my own happiness that we part now, and for ever. Adieu, and may God bless you. How do you sign yourself?' 'Oh, Willie.' 'Very well then, be more serious this time: Always your faithful friend, William Stacey Cricker.' He glanced over the note, his face falling more and more, while Lady Everard | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045421 | looked more and more satisfied. 'Copy that out, word for word, the moment you go back, and send it off,' she said, 'and all the worst of your troubles will be over.' 'I should think the worst is yet to come,' said he ruefully. 'But you promise to do it, Willie? Oh, promise me?' 'Oh yes rather,' said he half-heartedly. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045422 | 'Word for word?' 'O Lord, yes. That's to say, unless anything--' 'Not a word, Willie; it will be your salvation. Come and see me soon, and tell me the result. Ah! here you are, cher matre!' With a bright smile she welcomed Mr La France, who was now announced, gently dismissing Willie with a push of the left hand. 'Good | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045423 | heavens!' he said to himself, as he got into the cab, 'why, if I were to send a thing like that there would be murder and suicide! She'd show it to her husband, and he'd come round and knock me into a cocked hat for it. Dear Lady Everard--she's a dear, but she doesn't know anything about anything.' He tore | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045424 | the pages out of his pocket-book, and called out to the cabman the address of the Mitchells. 'Ah, chre madame, que je suis fatigu!' exclaimed La France, as he threw himself back against the cushions. His hair was long and smooth and fair, so fair that he had been spoken of by jealous singers as a peroxide blond. His eyes | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045425 | were greenish, and he had dark eyebrows and eyelashes. He was good-looking. His voice in speaking was harsh, but his manner soft and insidious. His talents were cosmopolitan; his tastes international; he had no duties, few pleasures and that entire want of leisure known only to those who have practically nothing whatever to do. 'Fatigued? That's what you always say,' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045426 | said Lady Everard, laughing. 'But it is always true,' he said, with a strong French accent. 'You should take more exercise, Paul. Go out more in the air. You lead too secluded a life.' 'What exercises? I practise my voice every day, twenty minutes.' 'Ah, but I didn't mean that. I mean in the open air--sport--that sort of thing.' 'Ah, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045427 | you wish I go horseback riding. Ver' nice, but not for me. I have never did it. I cannot begun now, Lady Everard. I spoil all the _velout_ of my voice. Have you seen again that pretty little lady I met here before? Delicious light brown hair, pretty blue eyes, a wonderful blue, a blue that seem to say to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045428 | everyone something different.' 'What!' exclaimed Lady Everard. 'Are you referring to Mrs Ottley?' She calmed down again. 'Oh yes, she's charming, awfully sweet--devoted to her husband, you know--absolutely devoted to her husband; so rare and delightful nowadays in London.' 'Oh yes, ver' nice. Me, I am devoted to 'er husband too. I go to see him. He ask me.' 'What, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045429 | without _me_?' exclaimed Lady Everard. 'I meet him the other night. He ask me to come round and sing him a song. I cannot ask if I may bring Lady Everard in my pocket.' 'Really, Paul, I don't think that quite a nice joke to make, I must say.' Then relenting she said: 'I know it's only your artistic fun.' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045430 | 'So she ver' devoted to him? He have great confidence in her; he trust her quite; he sure she never have any flirt?' 'He has every confidence; he's certain, absolutely certain!' exclaimed Lady Everard. 'He wait till she come and tell him, I suppose. 'E is right.' He continued in this strain for some time, constantly going back to his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045431 | admiration for Edith, and then began (with a good deal of bitterness) on the subject of another young singer, whom he declared to be _un garon charmant_, but no good. 'He could not sing for nuts.' She heartily agreed, and they began to get on beautifully again, when she suddenly said to him: 'Is it true you were seen talking | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045432 | in the park to that girl Miss Turnbull, on Sunday?' 'If you say I was seen, I was. You could not know I talk to her unless I was seen. You could not know by wireless.' 'Don't talk nonsense, Paul,' she answered sharply. 'The point isn't that you were seen, but that you did it.' 'Who did it? Me? I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045433 | didn't do anything.' 'I don't think it's fair to me, I must say; it hurt my feelings that you should meet Amy Turnbull in the park and talk to her.' 'But what could I say? It is ver' difficul. I walk through the park; she walk through it with another lady. She speak to me. She say: Ah, dear Mr | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045434 | La France, what pleasure to see you! I ask you, Lady Everard, could I, a foreigner, not even naturalised here, could I order her out of the park? Could I scream out to her: Go out, do not walk in ze Hyde Park! Lady Everard do not like you! I have no authority to say that. I am not responsible | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045435 | for the persons that walk in their own park in their own country. She might answer me to go to the devil! She might say to me: What, Lady Everard not like me, so I am not allowed in the park? What that got to do with it? In a case like this, chre madame, I have no legal power.' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045436 | She laughed forgivingly and said: 'Ah, well, one mustn't be too exacting!' and as she showed some signs of a desire to pat his hair he rose, sat down to the piano, greatly to her disappointment, and filled up the rest of the time by improvising (from memory). It was a little fatiguing, as she thought it her duty to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045437 | keep up an expression of acute rapture during the whole of the performance, which lasted at least three-quarters of an hour. Miss Bennett Since his return Aylmer saw everything through what he called a rose-coloured microscope--that is to say, every detail of his life, and everything connected with it, seemed to him perfect. He saw Edith as much as ever, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045438 | and far less formally than before. She treated him with affectionate ease. She had admitted by her behaviour on the night he returned that she cared for him, and, for the moment, that was enough. A sort of general relaxation of formality, due to the waning of the season, and to people being too busy to bother, or already in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045439 | thought away, seemed to give a greater freedom. Everyone seemed more natural, and more satisfied to follow their own inclinations and let other people follow theirs. London was getting stale and tired, and the last feverish flickers of the exhausted season alternated with a kind of languor in which nobody bothered much about anybody else's affairs. General interest was exhausted, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045440 | and only a strong sense of self-preservation seemed to be left; people clung desperately to their last hopes. Edith was curiously peaceful and contented. She would have had scarcely any leisure but that her mother-in-law sometimes relieved her of the care of the children. Being very anxious that they should not lose anything from Miss Townsend's absence, she gave them | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045441 | lessons every day. One day, at the end of a history lesson, Archie said: 'Where's Miss Townsend?' 'She's at Bexhill.' 'Why is she at Bexhill?' 'Because she likes it.' 'Where's Bexhill?' 'In England.' 'Why isn't Miss Townsend?' 'What do you mean, Archie?' 'Well, why isn't she Miss Townsend any more?' 'She is.' 'But she's not our Miss Townsend any more. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045442 | Why isn't she?' 'She's gone away.' 'Isn't she coming back?' 'No.' Watching his mother's face he realised that she didn't regret this, so he said: 'Is Miss Townsend teaching anybody else?' 'I daresay she is, or she will, perhaps.' 'What are their names?' 'How should I know?' 'Do you think she'll teach anybody else called Archie?' 'It's possible.' 'I wonder | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045443 | if she'll ever be cross with the next boy she teaches.' 'Miss Townsend was very kind to you,' said Edith. 'But you need not think about her any more, because you will be going to school when you come back from the holidays.' 'That's what I told Dilly,' said Archie. 'But Dilly's not going to school. Dilly doesn't mind; she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045444 | says she likes you better than Miss Townsend.' 'Very kind of her, I'm sure,' laughed Edith. 'You see you're not a real governess,' said Archie, putting his arm round her neck. 'You're not angry, are you, mother? Because you're not a real one it's more fun for us.' 'How do you mean, I'm not a real governess?' 'Well, I mean | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045445 | we're not _obliged_ to do what you tell us!' 'Oh, aren't you? You've got to; you're to go now because I expect Miss Bennett.' 'Can't I see Miss Bennett?' 'Why do you want to see her?' 'I don't want to see her; but she always brings parcels. I like to see the parcels.' 'They are not for you; she brings | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045446 | parcels because I ask her to do shopping for me. It's very kind of her.' She waited a minute, then he said: 'Mother, do let me be here when Miss Bennett brings the parcels. I'll be very useful. I can untie parcels with my teeth, like this. Look! I throw myself on the parcel just like a dog, and shake | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045447 | it and shake it, and then I untie it with my teeth. It would be awfully useful.' She refused the kind offer. Miss Bennett arrived as usual with the parcels, looking pleasantly business-like and important. 'I wonder if these things will do?' she said, as she put them out on the table. 'Oh, they're sure to do,' said Edith; 'they're | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045448 | perfect.' 'My dear, wait till you see them. I don't think I've completed all your list.' She took out a piece of paper. 'Where did you get everything?' Edith asked, without much interest. 'At Boots', principally. Then the novels--Arnold Bennett, Maxwell--Oh, and I've got you the poem: 'What is it?' by Gilbert Frankau.' 'No, you mean, 'One of us',' corrected | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045449 | Edith. 'Then white serge for nurse to make Dilly's skirts--skirts a quarter of a yard long!--how sweet!--and heaps and heaps of muslin, you see, for her summer dresses. Won't she look an angel? Oh, and you told me to get some things to keep Archie quiet in the train.' She produced a drum, a trumpet, and a mechanical railway train. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045450 | 'Will that do?' 'Beautifully.' 'And here's your travelling cloak from the other place.' 'It looks lovely,' said Edith. 'Aren't you going to try it on?' 'No; it's sure to be all right.' 'I never saw such a woman as you! Here are the hats. You've _got_ to choose these.' Here Edith showed more interest. She put them on, said all | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045451 | the colour must be taken out of them, white put in one, black velvet in the other. Otherwise they would do. 'Thanks, Grace; you're awfully kind and clever. Now do you know what you're going to do? You're going to the Academy with me and Aylmer. He's coming to fetch us.' 'Oh, really--what fun!' At this moment he arrived. Edith | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045452 | introduced them. 'I've been having such a morning's shopping,' she said, 'I deserve a little treat afterwards, don't I?' 'What sort of shopping? I'll tell you what you ought to have--a great cricket match when the shopping season's over, between the Old Selfridgians, and the Old Harrodians,' he said, laughing. They walked through acres of oil paintings and dozens of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045453 | portraits of Chief Justices. 'I can't imagine anyone but Royalty enjoying these pictures,' said Edith. 'They don't go to see pictures; they go to view exhibits,' Aylmer answered. Declaring they had 'Academy headache' before they had been through the second room, they sat down and watched the people. One sees people there that are to be seen nowhere else. An | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045454 | extraordinary large number of clergymen, a peculiar kind of provincial, and strange Londoners, almost impossible to place, in surprising clothes. Then they gave it up, and Aylmer took them out to lunch at a club almost as huge and noisy and as miscellaneous as the Academy itself. However, they thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Edith and Bruce were to take up their | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045455 | abode in their little country house at Westgate next day. At Westgate 'I've got to go up to town on special business,' said Bruce, one afternoon, after receiving a telegram which he had rather ostentatiously left about, hoping he would be questioned on the subject. It had, however, been persistently disregarded. 'Oh, have you?' 'Yes. Look at this wire.' He | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045456 | read aloud: '_Wish to see you at once if possible come up today M_.' 'Who _is_ 'M'?' 'Mitchell, of course. Who should it be?' He spoke aggressively, then softened down to explanation, 'Mitchell's in town a few days on business, too. I may be detained till Tuesday--or even Wednesday next.' Bruce had been to town so often lately, his manner | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045457 | was so vague, he seemed at once so happy and so preoccupied, so excited, so pleased, so worried, and yet so unnaturally good-tempered, that Edith had begun to suspect he was seeing Miss Townsend again. The suspicion hurt her, for he had given his word of honour, and had been nice to her ever since, and amiable (though rather absent | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045458 | and bored) with the children. She walked down to the station with him, though he wished to go in the cab which took his box and suit-case, but he did not resist her wish. On the way he said, looking round as if he had only just arrived and had never seen it before: 'This is a very nice little | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045459 | place. It's just the right place for you and the children. If I were you, I should stay on here.' It struck her he spoke in a very detached way, and some odd foreshadowing came to her. 'Why--aren't you coming back?' she asked jokingly. 'Me? _What_ an idea! Yes, of course. But I've told you--this business of mine--well, it'll take | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045460 | a little time to arrange. Still, I expect to be back on Tuesday. Or quite on Wednesday--or sooner.' They walked on and had nearly reached the station. 'How funny you are, Bruce!' 'What do you mean? Are you angry with me for going up to see about important business? Why, here you've got Aylmer and his boy at the hotel, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045461 | my mother and Vincy to stay with you. You've got plenty of companions. I don't suppose you'll miss me much. You see--a--this is a sort of business matter women don't understand. Women are incapable of understanding it.' 'Of what nature is it?' 'How do you mean, nature? It's not of any particular _nature_. Nature, indeed! How like a woman! It's | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045462 | just business.' He waited a minute. 'Stockbroking; that's what it is. Yes, it's stockbroking. I want to see a chap who's put me in to a good thing. A perfectly safe thing. No gambling. But one has to see into it, you see. Mitchell wants to see me at once, you see. Do you see? You saw his wire, didn't | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045463 | you? I've explained, haven't I? Aren't you satisfied with my explanation?' '_You_ appear to be--very. But I'm not asking you to tell me any details about the business, whatever it may be.' They arrived at the station, and Bruce gave her what she thought a very queer look. It was a mixture of fear, daring, caution and a sort of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045464 | bravado. Anxiety was in it, as well as a pleased self-consciousness. 'Tell me, frankly, something I'd like to know, Bruce.' 'Are you getting suspicious of me, Edith? That's not like you. Mind you, it's a great mistake in a woman; women should always trust. Mistrust sometimes drives a man to--to--Oh, anyhow, it's a great mistake.' 'I only want you to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045465 | tell me something, Bruce. I'll believe you implicitly if you'll answer.... Do you ever see Miss Townsend now?' 'Never, on my honour! I swear it.' He spoke with such genuine good faith that she believed him at once. 'Thanks. I'm glad. And--have you never since--' 'Never seen her, never written to her, never communicated with her since she left! Don't | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045466 | know where she is and don't care. Now you do believe me?' he asked, with all the earnestness and energy of truth. 'Absolutely. Forgive me for asking.' 'Oh, that's all right.' He was relieved, and smiled. 'All right, Bruce dear. I'm glad. It would have worried me.' 'Now go, Edith. Don't bother to wait till I get in. I'll write | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045467 | to you--I'll write to you soon.' She still lingered, seeing something odd in his manner. 'Give my love to my mother,' he said, looking away. 'I say--' Edith.' 'Yes, dear?' 'Oh, nothing.' She waited on till the train started. His manner was alternately peevish and kind, but altogether odd. Her last glimpse was a rather pale smile from Bruce as | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045468 | he waved his hand and then turned to his paper.... 'Well, what _does_ it matter so long as he _has_ gone!' exclaimed Aylmer impatiently, when she expressed her wonder at Bruce's going. The tide was low, and they went for a long walk over the hard shining sand, followed by Archie picking up wonderful shells and slipping on the green | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045469 | seaweed. Everything seemed fresh, lovely. She herself was as fresh as the sea breeze, and Aylmer seemed to her as strong as the sea. (Privately, Edith thought him irresistible in country clothes.) Edith had everything here to make her happy, including Bruce's mother, who relieved her of the children when she wanted rest and in whose eyes she was perfection. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045470 | She saw restrained adoration in Aylmer's eyes, love and trust in the eyes of the children. She had all she wanted. And yet--something tugged at her heart, and worried her. She had a strange and melancholy presentiment. But she threw it off. Probably there was nothing really wrong with Bruce; perhaps only one of those little imaginary romances that he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045471 | liked to fabricate for himself; or, perhaps, it was really business? It was all right if Mr Mitchell knew about it. Yet she could not believe that 'M' _was_ Mitchell. Bruce had repeated it too often; and, why on earth should Mitchell suddenly take to sending Bruce fantastic telegrams and signing them, for no reason, with an initial?... Goggles 'What | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045472 | divine heavenly pets and ducks of angels they are!' exclaimed Lady Everard rather distractedly. 'Angels! Divine! And so good, too! I never saw such darlings in my life. Look at them, Paul. Aren't they sweet?' Lady Everard with her party (what Aylmer called her performing troupe) had driven over to Westgate, from where she was staying in the neighbourhood, to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045473 | have tea with Edith. She had brought with her a sort of juvenile party, consisting of Mr Cricker, Captain Willis and, of course, Paul La France, the young singer. She never moved without him. She explained that two other women had been coming also, but they had deserted her at the last minute. Paul La France had been trying for | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045474 | an hour and a half to make eyes through motor goggles, which, naturally, was not a success; so he seemed a little out of temper. Archie was staring at him as if fascinated. He went up and said: 'Voulez-vous lend me your goggles?' 'Mais certainement! Of course I will. Voil mon petit.' 'The darling! How sweet and amusing of him! | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045475 | But they're only to be used in the motor, you know. Don't break them, darling, will you? Monsieur will want them again. Ah! how sweet he looks!' as he put them on, 'I never saw such a darling in the whole course of my life! Look at him, Mrs Ottley. Look at him, Paul!' 'Charmant. C'est dlicieux,' grumbled La France. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045476 | 'What a charming little lawn this is, going right down to the sea, too. Oh, Mr Ross, is that you? Isn't this a delightful little house? More tea? Yes, please. Mr La France doesn't take sugar, and--' 'You don't know what I am now,' said Archie, having fixed the goggles on his own fair head, to the delight of Dilly. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045477 | 'Oh, I guess what you are! You're a motorist, aren't you, darling? That's it! It's extraordinary how well I always get on with children, Mrs Ottley,' explained Lady Everard. 'I daresay it's through being used to my little grandchildren, Eva's two angels, you know, but I never see them because I can't stand their noise, and yet I simply adore | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045478 | them. Pets!' 'What am I?' asked Archie, in his persistent way, as he walked round the group on the lawn, in goggles, followed closely by Dilly, saying, 'Yes, what is he?' looking exactly like a live doll, with her golden hair and blue ribbons. 'You're a motorist, darling.' 'No, I'm not a silly motorist. Guess what I am?' 'It's so | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045479 | difficult to guess, such hot weather! Can you guess, Paul?' 'I sink he is a nuisance,' replied the Frenchman, laughing politely. 'No, that's wrong. You guess what I am.' 'Guess what he is,' echoed Dilly. 'O Lord! what does it matter? What I always say is--live and let live, and let it go at that,' said Captain Willis, with his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045480 | loud laugh. 'What, Mrs Ottley? But they won't do it, you know--they won't--and there it is!' 'Guess what I am,' persisted Archie. 'Never mind what you are; do go and sit down, and take those things off,' said Edith. 'Not till you guess what I am.' 'Does Dilly know?' 'No, Dilly doesn't know. Guess what I am, grandmamma!' 'I give | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045481 | it up.' 'I thought you'd never guess. Well, I'm a blue-faced mandrill!' declared Archie, as he took the goggles off reluctantly and gave them back to La France, who put them under his chair. 'Yes, he's a two-faced mangle,' repeated Dilly. He turned round on her sharply. 'Now, don't talk nonsense! You're a silly girl. I never said anything about | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045482 | being a two-faced mangle; I'm a blue-faced mandrill.' 'Well, I said so; a two-faced mangle.' 'Don't say anything at all if you can't say it right,' said Archie, raising his voice and losing his temper. 'Well, they's both the same.' 'No, they jolly well aren't.' He drew her a little aside. 'A blue-faced mandrill, silly, is real; it's in my | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045483 | natural history book.' 'Sorry,' said Dilly apologetically. 'In my natural history t is, a _real_ thing. I'm a blue-faced mandrill.... Now say it after me.' 'You's a two-faced mangle.' 'Now you're doing it on purpose! If you weren't a little girl, Dilly--' 'I wasn't doing it on purpose.' 'Oh, get away before I hit you! You're a silly little fool.' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045484 | She slowly walked away, calling out: 'And you're a silly two-faced mangle,' in a very irritating tone. Archie made a tremendous effort to ignore her, then he ran after her saying: 'Will you shut up or will you not?' Aylmer seized hold of him. 'What are you going to do, Archie?' 'Teach Dilly what I am. She says--Oh, she's _such_ | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045485 | a fool!' 'No, Archie, leave her alone; she's only a baby. Come along, old boy. Give Mr Cricker a cup of tea; he hasn't had one yet.' Archie was devoted to Aylmer. Following him, he handed the tea to Mr Cricker, saying pathetically: 'I'm a blue-faced mandrill, and she knew it. I told her so. Aren't girls fools? They do | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045486 | worry!' 'They _are_ torments,' said Aylmer. 'I wish that Frenchman would give me his goggles to keep! He doesn't want them.' 'I'll give you a pair,' said Aylmer. 'Thanks,' said Cricker,' I won't have any tea. I wish you'd come and have a little talk with me, Ross. Can I have a word with you alone?' Aylmer good-naturedly went aside | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045487 | with him. 'It's worse than ever,' said Cricker, in low, mysterious tones. 'Since I've been staying with Lady Everard it's been wire, wire, wire--ring, ring, ring--and letters by every post! You see, I thought it was rather a good plan to get away for a bit, but I'm afraid I shall have to go back. Fancy, she's threatened suicide, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045488 | telling her husband, and confiding in Lady Everard! And giving up the stage, and oh, goodness knows what! There's no doubt the poor child is absolutely raving about me. No doubt whatever.' Aylmer was as sympathetic as he knew how. The party was just going off when La France found that the goggles had disappeared. A search-party was organised; great | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045489 | excitement prevailed; but in the end they went away without the glasses. When Dilly had just gone to sleep in her cot a frightening figure crept into her room and turned on the electric light. 'Oh, Archie! What is it! Who is it! Oh!... Oh!' 'Don't be frightened,' said Archie, in his deepest voice, obviously hoping she would be frightened. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045490 | He was in pyjamas and goggles. 'Don't be frightened! _Now! Say what I am_. What am I?' 'A blue-faced mandrill,' she whined. He took off the goggles and kissed her. 'Right! Good night, old girl!' The Elopement The following Tuesday, Edith, Aylmer, Vincy and Mrs Ottley were sitting on the veranda after dinner. They had a charming little veranda which | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045491 | led on to a lawn, and from there straight down to the sea. It was their custom to sit there in the evening and talk. The elder Mrs Ottley enjoyed these evenings, and the most modern conversation never seemed to startle her. She would listen impassively, or with a smile, as if in silent approval, to the most monstrous of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045492 | paradoxes or the most childish chaff. Aylmer's attention and kind thought for her had absolutely won her heart. She consulted him about everything, and was only thoroughly satisfied when he was there. His strong, kind, decided voice, his good looks, his decision, and a sort of responsible impulsiveness, all appealed to her immensely. She looked up to him, in a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045493 | kind of admiring maternal way; Edith often wondered, did she not see Aylmer's devotion? But, if she did, Mrs Ottley thought nothing of it. Her opinion of Edith was so high that she trusted her in any complications.... 'Isn't Bruce coming down tonight?' she asked Edith. 'I'm to have a wire.' 'Ah, here's the last post. Perhaps he's written instead.' | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045494 | Vincy fetched the letters. There was one from Bruce. Edith went into the drawing-room to read it; there was not sufficient light on the veranda.... In growing amazement she read the following words:-- DEAR EDITH, 'I hope what I am about to tell you will not worry you too much. At any rate I do hope you will not allow | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045495 | it to affect your health. It is inevitable, and you must make up your mind to it as soon as possible. I say this in no spirit of unkindness; far from it. It is hard to me to break the news to you, but it must be done. 'Mavis Argles and I are all in all to each other. We | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045496 | have made up our minds on account of certain _circumstances_ to throw in our lot together, and we are starting for Australia today. When this reaches you, we shall have started. I enclose the address to write to me. 'In taking this step I have, I am sure, acted for the best. It may cause you great surprise and pain. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045497 | I regret it, but we met and became very quickly devoted to one another. She cannot live without me. What I am doing is my duty. I now ask you, and believe you will grant my request, to make arrangements to _give me my freedom as soon as possible_. Mind you do this, Edith, for it is really my duty | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045498 | to give my name to Mavis, who, as I have said, is devoted to me heart and soul, and cannot live without me. 'I shall always have the greatest regard and respect for you, and _wish you well_. 'I am sorry also about my mother, but you must try and explain that it is for the best. You also will | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000045499 | know exactly what to do, and how to bring up the children just as well without me as with. 'Hoping this sudden news will not affect your health in any way, and that you will try and stay on a good while at Westgate, as I am sure the air is doing you good, believe me, yours affectionately as always, | 60 | gutenberg |
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