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"Rather," he cried, "let the girl we both love remain with you. She will be here waiting for me should I return." "More likely," said the minister, "she will be at the bank." The banker was unmarried, and had once in February and again in June seen Clarrie home from the Dorcas Society. The town talked about it.
When Andrew Riach went to London, his intention was to become private secretary to a member of the Cabinet. If time permitted, he proposed writing for the Press. "It might be better if you and Clarrie understood each other," the minister said. It was their last night together. They faced each other in the manse-parlour at Wheens, whose low, peeled ceiling had threatened Mr.
The winsome girl held one of the socks on her knee who will chide her? and a tear glistened in her eye. Andrew was a good deal affected. "Clarrie," he said softly, "will you be my wife?" She clung to him in reply. He kissed her fondly. "Clarrie, beloved," he said nervously, after a long pause, "how much are seven and thirteen?" "Twenty-three," said Clarrie, putting up her mouth to his.
"If a herring and a half," he said anxiously, "cost three half-pence, how many will you get for elevenpence?" Clarrie was mute. Andrew shuddered; he felt that he was making a mistake. "Why do I kiss you?" he cried. "What good does it do either of us?" He looked fiercely at his companion, and her eyes filled with tears. "Where even is the pleasure in it?" he added brutally.
Clarrie has put Lord Randolph Churchill's shoe into a glass case on the piano, and, as is only natural, Andrew is now a staunch Conservative. Domesticated and repentant, he has renounced the devil and all her works. Sometimes, when thinking of the past, the babble of his lovely babies jars upon him, and, still half-dreaming, he brings their heads close together.
The only objectionable thing about Clarrie was her long hair. She wore a black frock and looked very breakable. Nothing irritates a man so much. Andrew gathered her passionately in his arms, while a pained, puzzled expression struggled to reach his face. Then he replaced her roughly on the ground and left her. It was impossible to say whether they were engaged.
Montague noticed that these names always ended in "ie," there was Robbie and Freddie and Auggie and Clarrie and Bertie and Chappie; if their names could not be made to end properly, they had nicknames instead.
Strictly speaking, gentlemen should not attend these meetings; but in Wheens there was not much difference between the men and the women. That night, as Clarrie bade Andrew farewell at the garden gate, he took her head in his hands and asked what this talk about the banker meant. It was no ignoble curiosity that prompted him.
He re-appeared eventually, or this record would never have been written. During this period of gloom, Clarrie wrote him frequently long and tender epistles. More strictly, the minister wrote them, for he had the gift of beautiful sentiment in letters, which had been denied to her. She copied them, however, and signed them, and they were a great consolation.
There was poor Clarrie Mason: Clarrie, sitting in at bridge, with an expression of feverish eagerness upon his pale face. Clarrie always lost, and it positively broke his heart, though he had ten millions laid by on ice. Clarrie went about all day, bemoaning his brother, who had been kidnapped. Had Montague not heard about it?
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