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Nobody knew anything about him, except that he was a nephew of old Tyson of Thorneytoft, and had come in for the property. Nobody cared much for old Tyson of Thorneytoft; he was not exactly well, no matter, he was very respectable and he was dead, which entitled him to a little consideration. And as Mr.
Miss Batchelor raised her eyebrows. "She must be very much stronger than she was at Thorneytoft." "She's never been so well in her life. Thorneytoft didn't agree with her at all. She's been a different woman since they left it." "I never thought it would suit Mr. Tyson." "No; it wasn't the life for him at all. He's got too much go in him to settle down anywhere in the country.
And now it seemed that Tyson, the cosmopolitan adventurer, the magnificent social bandit who trampled, so to speak, on the orchids of respectability, and rode rough-shod over the sleek traditions of Thorneytoft, was after all nothing better than a little City tailor's son. Of course it didn't matter in the very least.
It was the beginning of the hunting season, and with the hunting season Louis Stanistreet reappeared on the scene. He stayed at Thorneytoft as usual. Tyson had just bought a new hunter, a remarkable animal. It fell away suddenly in the hind-quarters; it had a neck like a giraffe and legs like a spider; but it could jump, if not very like a horse, very like a kangaroo.
But though Stanistreet was always hanging about Ridgmount Gardens, he was no nearer solving the problem that had perplexed him. And yet his views of women had undergone a change; he was not the same man who had discussed Molly Wilcox in the billiard-room at Thorneytoft three years ago. One thing he noticed which was new. Mrs.
At Thorneytoft a few hours later Stanistreet's tongue was running on as usual, when Tyson pulled him up with a jerk. "Hold hard. Do you know you're talking about the future Mrs. Nevill Tyson?" Stanistreet tried to keep calm, for he was poised on his waist across the edge of the billiard-table. As it was, he lost his balance at the critical moment, and it ruined his stroke.
They were in the porch at Thorneytoft, the bare white porch that stared out over the fields, and down the great granite road to London. As Mrs. Nevill Tyson listened she leaned against the wall, with her hands clasped in front or her and her head thrown back to stop her tears from falling. Her throat shook. She was so young only a child herself!
He was always going up to London now, and people who had met him there hinted that the country gentleman had become a man about town. Still, you must not believe the half of what you hear; and supposing there was some truth in the report, why, what could you expect with a wife like that? By March it was settled that they were to leave Thorneytoft and make London their headquarters.
And then he had retired for ten years before he came to Thorneytoft. Those ten years might be considered a season of purification before entering on his solemn career as a country gentleman. Old Tyson had cut himself adrift from his own origins. And as the years went on he wrapped himself closer in his impenetrable garment of respectability; he was only Mr.
I knew when you came back you would come right here I might have missed you. Besides, it would have been horrible to go back to Thorneytoft, where everybody was talking and thinking things. They would talk, Nevill." "The fiends! You shouldn't have minded them, darling. They didn't understand you. How could they? The brutes." "Me? Oh, I wouldn't have minded that." Tyson was frankly astonished.
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