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She staggered and stumbled and somersaulted through two pages of DO-RE-ME-FA-SOL-LA-SI. Then he held up his finger. "Enough," said he. Silence, an awful silence. She recalled what Mrs. Belloc had told her about him, what Mrs. Brindley had implied. But she got no consolation. She said timidly: "Really, Mr. Jennings, I can do better than that. Won't you let me try a song?" "God forbid!" said he.
Brindley believed so, and it must be so. After that illness and before she began to go about, she had fallen into several fits of hideous blues, had been in despair as to the future. As soon as she saw something of people always the valuable, musical sort of people her spirits improved.
He sat down to the piano and began to play softly the Castle motive from the Nibelung's Ring. He kept repeating it in different keys. 'What about the mumps, wife? he asked Mrs Brindley, who had been out of the room and now returned. 'Oh! I don't think it is mumps, she replied. 'They're all asleep. 'Good! he murmured, still playing the Castle motive.
"I'll not deny that has something to do with it," he admitted. "And why not?" "Why not, indeed?" said she. "But, after she had made the hit, you'd want her to quit the stage and take her place in society. Isn't that so?" "You ARE a keen one," exclaimed he admiringly. "But I didn't say that to her. And you won't, will you?" "It's hardly necessary to ask that," said Mrs. Brindley.
Mr Brindley also knew that it was perfect. There were prawns in aspic. I don't know why I should single out that dish, except that it seemed strange to me to have crossed the desert of pots and cinders in order to encounter prawns in aspic. Mr Brindley ate more cold roast beef than I had ever seen any man eat before, and more pickled walnuts.
Except for a feeling of unreality, a feeling that the natural order of things had been disturbed by some necromancer, I was perfectly well the same morning at breakfast, as the doctor had predicted I should be. When I expressed to Mr Brindley my stupefaction at this happy sequel, he showed a polite but careless inability to follow my line of thought.
'Was Miss Brett ever Simon Fuge's mistress? At that moment Mrs Brindley, miraculously fresh and smiling, entered the room. 'Wife, said Mr Brindley, without giving her time to greet me, 'what do you think he's just asked me? 'I don't know. 'He's just asked me if Annie Brett was ever Simon Fuge's mistress. She sank into a chair. 'Annie BRETT? She began to laugh gently. 'Oh!
"My eldest's been rather badly bitten by a dog, and the missis wants it cauterized." "Really?" "Well, you bet she does!" "Where's the bite?" "In the calf." The other man at the door having departed Robert Brindley abruptly joined the conversation at this point. "I suppose you've heard of that case of hydrophobia at Bleakridge?" said Brindley. Edward Henry's heart jumped.
My eyes are fixed on the mouldings of the ceiling, while a jumble of thoughts mix and muddle themselves in my head. Was Brindley Wood a dream? or is this a dream? Surely one or other must be, and, if this is not a dream, what is it? Is it reality, is it truth? And, if it is, how on earth did any thing so monstrous ever come about? How did he dare to approach her?
A Swedish maid, prepossessingly white and clean, ushered her into the little drawing-room, which was furnished with more simplicity and individual taste than is usual anywhere in New York, cursed of the mania for useless and tasteless showiness. There were no messy draperies, no fussy statuettes, vases, gilt boxes, and the like. Mildred awaited the entrance of Mrs. Brindley hopefully.
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