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Whatd'you-call'im, cannot afford to spend seven or eight hundred a year on his dinner alone." "Bah!" he said. "Nunkey pays for all, as you say. I will what you call stant the dinner, if you are SO POOR!" and again he gave that disagreeable grin, and placed an odious crook-nailed and by no means clean finger to his nose.
He took it, humorously, as his lesson sank his previous self-consciousness, with excellent effect, in grateful docility. "I only meant that there are perhaps better things to be done with Miss Stant than to criticise her. When once you begin THAT, with anyone !" He was vague and kind. "I quite agree that it's better to keep out of it as long as one can. But when one MUST do it "
"Well," Adam Verver rang out, "this IS her security. You've only, if you can't see it, to ask her." "'Ask' her?" the girl echoed it in wonder. "Certainly in so many words. Telling her you don't believe me." Still she debated. "Do you mean write it to her?" "Quite so. Immediately. To-morrow." "Oh, I don't think I can write it," said Charlotte Stant.
Peter had, during a number of hours, endeavoured to pierce the soul of Mortimer Stant meanwhile as the wind howled, the rain lashed the windows of his room, and the personality of Mr. Stant faded farther and farther away into ultimate distance, Peter was increasingly conscious that he was listening for something. He had felt himself surrounded by this strange sense of anticipation before.
And it doesn't in the least matter, over there, whether one likes it or not that is to anyone but one's self. But I didn't like it," said Charlotte Stant. "That's not encouraging then to me, is it?" the Prince went on. "Do you mean because you're going?" "Oh yes, of course we're going. I've wanted immensely to go." She hesitated. "But now? immediately?"
It was the third book which was always so decisive, and there was ground to recover after the comparative failure of the second novel. As he corrected the proofs he persuaded himself that "Mortimer Stant" wasn't, after all, so bad.
I hear all you say, an' I see him troo der crack here, an' he stant out there a long time looking back in here. So I half to wait an' you go nappin' an' I still wait. I wait to say, hurry, but don't go oop nor down der creek trail. I do anything for Miss Shirley, an' I like you for takin' care off her goot name; goot names iss hardt to get back if dey gets avay. Hurry."
"Well," Adam Verver rang out, "this IS her security. You've only, if you can't see it, to ask her." "'Ask' her?" the girl echoed it in wonder. "Certainly in so many words. Telling her you don't believe me." Still she debated. "Do you mean write it to her?" "Quite so. Immediately. To-morrow." "Oh, I don't think I can write it," said Charlotte Stant.
That was what, precisely, Charlotte Stant would be doing now; that was the present motive and support, to a certainty, of each of her looks and motions. She was the twentieth woman, she was possessed by her doom, but her doom was also to arrange appearances, and what now concerned him was to learn how she proposed.
Oh, with this, for him, the thing was clearer! "Then you needn't think. I know enough what it is for me to do." But she shook her head again. "I doubt if you know. I doubt if you CAN." "And why not, please when I've had you so before me? That I'm old has at least THAT fact about it to the good that I've known you long and from far back." "Do you think you've 'known' me?" asked Charlotte Stant.
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