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Updated: May 2, 2025
He gave a little laugh, and turned towards the door. "Guess you're right," he declared; "we'll let it go at that." Aynesworth followed him from the room. "I'm awfully glad you're out of the scrape," he said. Nesbitt caught him by the arm. "Come right along," he said. "I haven't had a drink in the daytime for a year, but we're going to have a big one now. I say, do you know how I got that money?"
Even Aynesworth himself could not see her face clearly at first, for she had chosen the darkest corner of the box. He gathered an impression of a gleaming white neck and bosom rising and falling rather more quickly than was natural, eyes which shone softly through the gloom, and the perfume of white roses, a great cluster of which lay upon the box ledge.
Aynesworth remarked upon this change one night as the two men paced the deck after dinner. "You are beginning to find more pleasure," he said, "in talking to people." Wingrave shook his head. "By no means," he answered coldly. "It is extremely distasteful to me." "Then why do you do it?" Aynesworth asked bluntly. Wingrave never objected to being asked questions by his secretary.
Travers' wit, and find my neighbor, who has done Europe, attractive. That is a matter of disposition." "I should like," Aynesworth remarked, "to have known you fifteen years ago." Wingrave shrugged his shoulders. "I fancy," he said, "that I was a fairly average person I mean that I was possessed of an average share of the humanities. I have only my memory to go by.
Aynesworth inquired. "I have taken a great fancy to the child." The clergyman edged a little towards the door, and the coldness of his manner was unmistakable. "I do not wish to seem discourteous," he said, "but I cannot recognize that you have any right to ask me these questions. You may accept my word that the child is to be fittingly provided for."
If I could only get them back?" Her voice trembled with an appeal whispered but passionate. It was wonderful how musical and yet how softly spoken her words were. They were like live things, and the few feet of darkened space through which they had passed seemed charged with magnetic influence. "Mr. Aynesworth!" He turned and faced her. "Can't you help me?" "I cannot, Lady Ruth."
"Look here," he said, "I'll try what I can do with Mr. Wingrave. Wait here!" Aynesworth found his employer alone with his broker, who was just hastening off to keep an appointment. He plunged at once into his appeal. "Mr. Wingrave," he said, "you have just had a young broker named Nesbitt on." Wingrave glanced at a paper by his side. "Yes," he said. "Six hundred short!
A pale, slight young man, who stood at this right hand, was speaking. His name was Walter Aynesworth, and he was a writer of short stories a novelist in embryo. "What I envy you most, Lovell," he declared, "is your escape from the deadly routine of our day by day life. Here in London it seems to me that we live the life of automatons.
Just then Aynesworth came up, and with a motion of her fan she called him to her. "Please take me into the other room," she said "I want a glass of champagne, and on the way you can tell me all about America." "One is always making epigrams about America," he protested, smiling. "Won't you spare me?" "Tell me, then, how you progress with your great character study!"
Aynesworth leaned back in his chair, and contemplated his companion for the next few moments in thoughtful silence. It was hard, he felt, to take a man who talked like this seriously. His manner was convincing, his speech deliberate and assured.
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