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No; I've thought of all those things it's no use." "You could go to the Martels'." "Yes, and put another burden on Cass. I tell you, I'm not going home. I am going to see Harold, and and talk things over, and perhaps go straight on to New York to-night." "You can't see him if he is out of town." "Why do you think he is out of town?" "Well, he isn't here," Quin observed dryly.
An Italian one that the washwoman had forsaken. And Papa Claude had given up his lectures at the university in order to write the great American play. Weren't they the funniest and the dearest people he had ever known? It was amazing how intimate Quin and Miss Bartlett got on the subject of the Martels.
The next day Quin sold his dinner-coat for a fourth of what he paid for it, and forswore society forever. There was absolutely nothing in it, he assured the Martels, a conviction that assorted strangely with the fact that he devoured the columns in the daily papers devoted to the doings of the social elect, and waded through endless lists under the caption "Among Those Present."
It was evidently something she could not explain, for she sat staring gloomily at the wall above the bed, then she said abruptly: "Well, I must be going. Good-by if I don't see you again!" "But you will," announced Quin fiercely. "You are going to see me next Sunday at the Martels'. I'll be there if I land in the guard-house for it." "Why, your time's up Saturday, isn't it? Oh!
"He looks upon her as a perfect child," she insisted; "besides, he's too lazy and conceited to be in love with anybody but himself." "That may be, but Nell's got him going all right." Then the conversation veered back to the Martels, with the result that an hour later Quin was on his way home bearing a gracefully worded note from Mrs.
"'Tis a terrible muddle sometimes with the man, as far as spout do go," said Spinks. "Well, we'll say nothing about that," the tranter answered; "for I don't believe 'twill make a penneth o' difference to we poor martels here or hereafter whether his sermons be good or bad, my sonnies." Mr.
"Suppose the child gets there and nobody is at home!" groaned Miss Isobel, whose imagination always rushed toward disaster. "What on earth shall I do?" "Leave it to me," said Quin. "I'll run around to the Martels', and if she's not there I'll go out to Valley Mead. She's sure to be one place or the other." "Of course she must be; but I'm so anxious! You will go right away, won't you?
But even here she met an obstacle. A letter arrived from Papa Claude, saying that he would not be able to get possession of the little apartment until December first, a delay that necessitated Eleanor's remaining with the Martels for another month. The situation was a delicate and a difficult one.
You may not believe it, but he is an even better dramatist than he is a doctor." "Oh, yes, I do," said Quin; "that's easy to believe." The sarcasm was lost upon Miss Bartlett, who was intent upon delivering her message from the Martels. They had sent word that they expected Quin to come straight to them when he got his discharge, and that his room was waiting for him.
If not, I bet I find her at the Martels', toasting marshmallows." In spite of his assumed confidence, he ran every step of the way home. As he turned the corner he saw with dismay that the house was dark. His call in the front hall brought no answer. He turned on the light, and saw an unstamped letter addressed to himself on the table.
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