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The most pleasant part of Roland's day, was the occasional space which he was permitted to pass in personal attendance on the Queen and her ladies, together with the regular dinner-time, which he always spent with Dame Mary Fleming and Catharine Seyton.
"Don't be uneasy, a little fainting fit; we have bled him. He is safe now, see, he is recovering." Roland's eyes, as they opened, turned to me with an anxious, inquiring look. I smiled upon him as I kissed his forehead, and could, with a safe conscience, whisper words which neither father nor Christian could refuse to receive as comfort. In a few minutes more we had left the house.
So instead of being a loving tie between them, the poor wailing little morsel of humanity separated very love, while Roland's complaints of it soon really produced in his heart the impatient dislike which at first he only pretended. He grumbled when left in charge of the cradle.
Do you mean Miss Dulcie Challoner, Sir Roland's daughter?" "Yes." An extremely puzzled look came into his eyes, though this he was probably not aware of. "But what makes you think Miss Challoner is here?" he inquired quickly. "She spent the night here with Mrs. Stapleton." He looked still more puzzled. "Did she really?" he answered in a tone of surprise which obviously was feigned. "Yes.
Might Dulcie not have excellent reasons to give for all that had occurred the night before? Might she not have been duped, and taken to that house under wholly false pretences? An uncle of hers believed to be dead, a brother of Sir Roland's, had, I knew, been a confirmed gambler. There was much in heredity, I reflected, in spite of modern theories to the contrary.
It was Roland's first experience of a theatrical talking-over, and he never forgot it. Two such talkers-over as Bromham Rhodes and R. P. de Parys were scarcely to be found in the length and breadth of theatrical London. Nothing, it seemed, could the gifted pair even begin to think of doing without first discussing the proposition in all its aspects.
Fat and bloated though the face was, and though the eyes sagged, in the man's expression there was something Gastrell turned to me. "Don't you see the likeness?" he asked quickly. Gagged as I was, of course I couldn't speak. "Bob is Sir Roland's brother Robert Challoner," he said. "At Holt his name is never spoken, but you have heard of him.
While Roland's mother and Phebe were weeping together and praying for him, Felicita was crying for help and deliverance for herself. Long as the daylight lasts in May it was after nightfall when Felicita left her study and went down to the drawing-room, more elegantly and expensively furnished for her than the drawing-room at Riversdale had been.
I had then no heart to speak further on such a subject, but faltering out that I would go and see my uncle, I took up the light and ascended the stairs. I crept noiselessly into Roland's room, and shading the light, saw that, though he slept, his face was very troubled. And then I thought, "What are my young griefs to his?" and sitting beside the bed, communed with my own heart and was still.
At half-past six precisely the waiter informed Roland that his friends were in the courtyard. Roland greeted them cordially and sprang into his saddle. The party followed the boulevards as far as the Place Louis XV. and then turned up the Champs Elysees. On the way the strange phenomenon that had so much astonished Sir John at the time of Roland's duel with M. de Barjols recurred.
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