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He nodded good-temperedly to Tressady, then got up to speak to a man on the edge of the further group. "How amusing!" said George, his satirical eyes still watching Lady Maxwell. "How much that set has 'seen and felt' of sweaters, and white-lead workers, and that ilk! Don't they look like it?" "Who are they?"
Tressady returned with vivacity. "Anyway, this particular carshen is a man 'My carshen lun floot store' that's who it is!" "Will you kindly explain what 'My carshen lun floot store' means?" asked a young man who was lying in a hammock that he lazily moved now and then by means of a white-shod foot.
"I believe so," said George. "May we come to business, mother? I have brought these papers for you to sign, and I must get to the House in good time." Lady Tressady seemed to take no notice. She got up again, restlessly, and walked to the window. "How do you like my dress, George? Now, don't imagine anything absurd! Justine made it, and it was quite cheap."
She walked away from him, her hands clasped behind her, her soft skirt trailing a pale muse of meditation meditation in which for once she did not invite him to share. "Tressady, by all that's wonderful!" said a member of Fontenoy's party to his neighbour. "What's he got to say?" The man addressed bent forward, with his hands on his knees, to look eagerly at the speaker.
Watton had laughed and submitted, and Tressady had carried off the picture, honestly meaning to present it to Letty for a collection of contemporary "beauties" she had just begun to make. Later in the day, as he was taking off his coat in the evening to dress for dinner, Tressady drew out the photograph.
Then she raised her eyeglass, and looked hard and curiously at Tressady. His face told her nothing, however, and as she was the least sympathetic of women, she soon forgot her own curiosity. Evelyn Watton, a vision of fresh girlhood in her morning frock, glanced shyly at him once or twice as she gave him scones and mustard. She was passing through a moment of poetry and happy dreams.
George declared, with good temper, that he and Letty were well aware of his mother's triumphs; whereupon Lady Tressady, becoming tearful, said she knew it wasn't a pretty thing to say of course it wasn't but if one was treated unkindly by one's only son and his wife, what could one do but assert oneself?
Perhaps you'll be still more horrified when you know that they came round this afternoon, when I was out and George was gone, to tell me that Lady Tressady was frightfully ill dying, I think my maid said.
"Tressady!" says Bym at last in a hoarse whisper, "Tressady O Cap'n, be ye sarten sure?" "Sure!" says Penfeather, in the same hushed manner, and reaching powder and bullets from a cupboard he began methodically to reload his pistols. "He'll be outside now where the shadows be thickest, waiting me with Abnegation and Sol and Rory, and God knoweth how many more." "Then he aren't dead, Cap'n?"
And he plunged eagerly into the description of certain schemes wherewith Naseby had lately astonished the Maxwell circle. Tressady listened, languidly at first, then with a kind of jealous annoyance that scandalised himself. How well he could understand the attraction of such things for her quick mind! Life was made too easy for these "golden lads."
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