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I will not attempt to justify myself where I admit no guilt." "No," Averil said. "Pray don't think I am asking you to do anything of the sort! Only, Colonel Carlyon," she laid a pleading hand on his arm and lifted a very anxious face, "you remember we used to be friends, if you will allow the presumption of such a term. Won't you even try to show me your point of view in this matter?
"Why cannot we go to-morrow and see your old master?" she asked, as her white fingers, with their one or two superb rings, glided over the keys. "I feel an unaccountable desire to become acquainted with him. I should love to see what the person was like who molded you when you were a boy." "Mr. Carlyon is a wonderful-looking old man," John Derringham returned.
But he offered him nothing in return for his insulting words. Derrick waited for seconds. Then patience and resolution alike failed him. He swung round abruptly on his heel and walked out of the room. As for Colonel Carlyon, he did not rise from his chair till he had conscientiously finished his cigar. He had stuck to his principles. He had not answered his critic.
Carlyon, you know told me that it fretted him sadly to see how his father's little comforts were neglected. Theo puts her parochial work before her home duties.
Perhaps no two men were more dissimilar than David Carlyon and Malcolm Herrick, and yet they were alike in this, that they each loved Elizabeth with a profound and noble love. "You are looking serious, dear," he said presently, as Elizabeth made a pretence of sorting the silks of her embroidery. That little piece of embroidery with its gay silken flowers became one of Elizabeth's dearest relics.
Carlyon, who had been watching for his opportunity, buttonholed Maddison, and led him into a corner. "I've got you now," he said triumphantly. "My dear fellow, whatever made you snub poor Sir Allan like that?" "Never mind. Come and make your adieux to Lady Meltoun, and let us go. I should not have come here." "One moment first, Maddison," the artist said seriously.
"How tired one gets of it all!" she said to herself one May afternoon, as she came in sight of the porch where Mr. Carlyon was reading tranquilly and enjoying the sweet spring air. The curate-in-charge looked slightly older and had taken to spectacles, but otherwise there was little change in him. On the whole, his existence was a very peaceful one.
Carlyon was laying aside the pile of songs in the music cabinet as neatly as though it were an accustomed duty. Malcolm gave him an impatient glance. "One would think he belonged to the house," he said to himself rather crossly. "Please do not thank me," returned Elizabeth smiling; her eyes were very bright, and there was a warm flush on her face, which made her look young and handsome.
Now I am going to tell you a piece of news that will rather surprise you, but Elizabeth did not wish me to drop a hint until things were definitely settled." "Mr. Carlyon has resigned his living. The doctor has told him plainly that another winter at Stokeley will be too great a risk: the place is very bleak and cold, and the work far too hard. The Bishop is going to put in a younger man." "Mr.
I think I could understand. I want to understand." Carlyon leant his elbow on the mantelpiece and looked very gravely into the girl's troubled eyes. "You are very generous, Averil," he said. "Generous," she echoed, with a touch of impatience. "No; I only want to be just for my own sake. I hate to take a narrow, cramped view of things. I hate that Dick should.
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