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Something half hidden by the disturbed leaves on the earth caught Holker's attention. It was a red-leather pocketbook. He picked it up and opened it. It contained leaves of white paper for memoranda, and upon the first leaf was the name "Halpin Frayser."
But the Scribe refuses to be interested in Holker's talk, however brilliant, or in Miss Felicia's crisp repartee. His thoughts are down among the palms, where the two figures are entering the arbor, the soft glow of half a dozen lanterns falling upon the joyous face of the beautiful girl, as, with hand in Jack's, she leads him to a seat beside her on the bench. "But it's like home," Jack gasped.
One letter was reserved for the last. This he held in his hand until he again ran his eye over the pile before him. It was from Holker Morris the architect, a man who stood at the head of his profession. "Yes, Holker's handwriting," he said as he inserted the end of the paper cutter. "I wonder what the dear fellow wants now?" Here he ran his eye over the first page. "Listen, Major.
"For my part," Guy remarked, balancing a fragment of fried sole on his fork as he spoke, "I'm not going all that way down to Chetwood merely to swell Mrs. Holker's triumph." "I wouldn't if I were you," Cyril answered, with quiet incisiveness.
Lagarge, his companion a thin, cadaverous-looking man with a big head and the general air of having been carved out of an old root a great expert in ceramics listening intently, bobbing his head in toy-mandarin fashion whenever one of Holker's iconoclasms cleared the air. "Suppose they did pay thirty thousand dollars for it," Holker insisted, slapping his knee with his outspread palm.
I'll heap coals of fire on your head, you ungrateful man. I'll return good for evil. You shall have an invitation to Mrs. Holker's garden party on Saturday week at Chetwood Court, and there you'll be almost sure to meet the beautiful stranger." But at that very moment, at Craighton, Tilgate, Mr.
There was, moreover, in his every move and look, that quality of transparent sincerity which always won him friends at sight. "If men's faces are clocks," Peter always said, "Holker's is fitted with a glass dial. You can not only see what time it is, but you can see the wheels that move his heart." He was about to speak now, his eyes roaming the room waiting for the last man to be still.
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