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She had recovered her self-possession by this time, and was able to answer him quite calmly. "Yes, it is very pretty. It was a favourite spot of Austin's. I have at least a dozen sketches of it done by him. But I did not know you were in Yorkshire, Mr. Fairfax."
Austin, speaking for the first time. "You are not fool enough to credit this fellow's story, I'm sure. Come to the house at once. I will not stay here." Mrs. Austin's voice was hard and biting, and Crosby also caught the quick glance that passed between husband and wife. "I am sure Mrs. Delancy will not be so unkind as to leave me after I've had so much trouble in getting an audience.
By the time seven o'clock struck, Clement Austin's patience had given up the ghost; and to impatience had succeeded a vague sense of alarm. Margaret Wilmot had gone to force herself into this man's presence, in spite of his reiterated refusal to see her. What if what if, goaded by her persistence, maddened by the consciousness of his own guilt, he should attempt any violence.
Being one of the favored few of this earth, there's no reason why you shouldn't sit on a shady porch all day, dressed in cool, pale-green muslin, and sipping iced drinks." "Did you ever see me in a green muslin? I'll saddle Dolly myself, if you don't feel like it." She spoke very quietly, but the immediate consciousness of his stupid break did not improve Austin's bad temper.
This is my way. He walked on till he came to the road that led to St Austin's. The secretary of the Old Crockfordians stalked beside him with determined stride. 'Now, said Charteris, when they were on the road, 'you mustn't mind if I walk rather fast. I'm in a hurry. Charteris's idea of walking rather fast was to dash off down the road at quarter-mile pace.
"They never let me alone," he muttered; "they're always at me following me up as though I were a schoolboy. . . . Austin's the worst never satisfied. . . . What do I care for all these functions sitting around with the younger set and keeping the cradle of conversation rocking? I won't go to that infernal baby-show!"
"She's windin' us all," replied his wife, "an' we're standin' grateful-like, waitin' to be wound." "That's so all except Austin. Austin's mad as a hatter at what she got him to do Sunday morning; he doesn't like her, Mary." "Humph!" said his wife. "Good-bye, Mrs. Gray, I'm going for a ride." "Good-bye, dearie; sure it ain't too hot?"
Shall we tell John Coachman to put four horses to the landau with himself and the under-gardener as postilions and post over to Wimperfield just as they pay visits in Miss Austin's novels? Perhaps now we have gone back to Chippendale furniture, we shall return to muslin frocks and the manners of Miss Austin's time. I'm sure I wish we could.
He was half disposed to arrest the two conspirators on the spot, and make them confess, and absolve themselves; but it seemed to him better to keep an unseen eye over his son: Sir Austin's old system prevailed. Adrian characterized this system well, in saying that Sir Austin wished to be Providence to his son.
We found the door of Miss Austin's house open, and ornamented with orange branches, and on our presenting ourselves were accosted by a mulatto gentleman, who was, we presumed, "usher of the black rod." His head was well powdered, he was dressed in white jean trowsers, a waistcoat not six inches long, and a half-worn post-captain's coat on, as a livery.
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