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Updated: June 9, 2025
Our souls expand timidly at first, like little, half-fledged birds stealing out from the 'I don't know that I'm so set on shooting today, myself, said Martin. 'Will you come round the links? 'I am going out in the motor with Mr Barstowe, said Elsa. 'The motor! cried Mr Barstowe. 'Ah, Rossiter, that is the very poetry of motion.
The butler went on unmoved: 'Miss Elsa is going for a ride in the car today, sir. 'I know that. 'Uncommonly tricky things, these motor-cars. I was saying so to Roberts, the chauffeur, just as soon as I 'eard Miss Elsa was going out with Mr Barstowe. I said, "Roberts, these cars is tricky; break down when you're twenty miles from hanywhere as soon as look at you.
Now, when Mr Barstowe was reading to Miss Elsa on the occasion to which I 'ave alluded, you were sitting by, trying to engage her attention. It's not the way, sir. You should leave them alone together. Let her see so much of him, and nobody else but him, that she will grow tired of him. Fondness for poetry, sir, is very much like the whisky 'abit.
I never ride in a motor-car without those words of Shakespeare's ringing in my mind: "I'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes." 'I shouldn't give way to that sort of thing if I were you, said Martin. 'The police are pretty down on road-hogging in these parts. 'Mr Barstowe was speaking figuratively, said Elsa, with disdain.
'Was he? grunted Martin, whose sorrows were tending to make him every day more like a sulky schoolboy. 'I'm afraid I haven't got a poetic soul. 'I'm afraid you haven't, said Elsa. There was a brief silence. A bird made itself heard in a neighbouring tree. "The moan of doves in immemorial elms," quoted Mr Barstowe, softly.
Two nights and a day had passed since she had taken to her bed. 'How are you feeling today, dear? 'Has he gone, mother? 'Who? 'Mr Barstowe? 'Yes, dear. He left this morning. He said he had business with his publisher in London. 'Then I can get up, said Elsa, thankfully. 'I think you're a little hard on poor Mr Barstowe, Elsa. It was just an accident, you know.
In her town house a charge of small-shot, fired in any direction on a Thursday afternoon, could not have failed to bring down a poet, a novelist, or a painter. Aubrey Barstowe, author of The Soul's Eclipse and other poems, was a constant member of the crowd. A youth of insinuating manners, he had appealed to Mrs Keith from the start; and unfortunately the virus had extended to Elsa.
What's kept them all this while? 'It is possible, sir, that the rope might not have 'eld. Mr Barstowe, if I might say so, sir, is one of those himpetuous literary pussons, and possibly he homitted to see that the knot was hadequately tied. Or' his eye, grave and inscrutable, rested for a moment on Martin's 'some party might 'ave come along and huntied it a-puppus.
"Strange," cried the Colonel, "what do you mean by strange it's not the word I object to, it's the tone you spoke in." "What's the dispute?" asked Hoover. "Why," said Barstowe, "the Colonel was telling me he had seen pigs in Burmah sixteen feet long, and sunflowers twenty feet in diameter." "Oh, that story," said Hoover; "yes, there's nothing strange in that."
She raised her eyes. There was an absent look in them. 'The guns? she said. 'Oh, no; I hate watching men shoot. 'You used to like it. 'I used to like dolls, she said, impatiently. Mr Barstowe gave tongue. He was a slim, tall, sickeningly beautiful young man, with large, dark eyes, full of expression. 'We develop, he said. 'The years go by, and we develop.
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