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Eliot laughed outright. "Did I, really? What a boor you must have thought me!" "Oh, I did" fervently. "And then there was the day of the Fetes des Narcisses, when I hit you with a rosebud by mistake. You glared at me as if I'd committed one of the seven deadly sins." "So you had if occupying the thoughts of a 'confirmed misogynist' who had forsworn women and all their ways counts as one of them!"
"Or a misogynist?" "A what?" "A grouch. Are you?" "I don't know. Perhaps I am." "I don't believe it now. I did at first. You can look very cross when you like." "I haven't been cross with you, have I?" "No. But you didn't like being interrupted." "Not then but I'm rather enjoying it now." He took a dish from her fingers. "You know you did drop in rather informally. Who's been talking of me?"
Surely Sir Hastings, his own brother, will say something, will say something, will tell her something to ease this chagrin at her heart. "Who told you that?" asks Sir Hastings. "Did he himself? I shouldn't put it beyond him. He is a misogynist; a mere bookworm! Of no account. Do not waste a thought on him." "You mean "
You kin bet I don't aim to stay no longer than she kin git another herder, neither." But Lingle was already out of hearing of the querulous voice of the misogynist, and peering into the tepee which was as Mormon Joe had left it he noted that it contained an unmade bed, and extra pair of shoes, and a few articles of wearing apparel that was all.
Let him struggle and cry "Excelsior!" and fix his eyes upon the heights, let him devote himself to prayer or go grimly on his way with averted eyes, let him become cynic or misogynist, what's it matter? Sooner or later she lays hands upon him and claims him as her child. Man, woman and love.
There were supper parties.... Festive gatherings in the old studio.... Babette.... Lucille.... The artists' ball.... Were these things possible for a man with an honest, earnest, whole-hearted affection? The problem engaged me tensely till my ticket was collected at Vauxhall. Just there the solution came. I would be a Bohemian, but a misogynist. People would say, "Dear old Jimmy Cloyster.
The veriest misogynist among critics was compelled, in spite of himself, to confess to the charm of her strange beauty. Hers, as all agreed, was the loveliest face and the most graceful figure which had appeared on the London boards within the memory of a generation. According to some she was an accomplished actress, but she lacked that divine spark which stamps the true artist.
Leading a life of calm duty, constant routine, mystic reverie a sort of nuns at large too much gayety or laughter would jar upon their almost sacred quiet, and would be as out of place there as in a church." "Where you go to sleep over the sermon," Warrington said. "You are a professed misogynist, and hate the sex because, I suspect, you know very little about them," Mr.
I smoked on meditatively. It was odd, I thought, that chance had guided me straight as an arrow, to the cause of the change in my friend. One might have known, though, that he, the misogynist of our class, would have come to grief, sooner or later, over a woman. They always end by that.
"For a confirmed misogynist," she observed later on, when, the feast over, he was repacking the basket, "you have a very complete understanding of a woman's weakness for tea." "It's a case of cause and effect. A misogynist" caustically "is the product of a very complete understanding of most feminine weaknesses." Sara's slender figure tautened a little.
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