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Updated: May 9, 2025
But, between ourselves, Mr. Mallard, I can't help suspecting that he had learnt from his sister the particulars of the excursion." "You think it not impossible that Mrs. Baske connived at their meeting in that way?" "One doesn't like to use words of that kind, but " "I suppose one must use the word that expresses one's meaning," said Mallard, bluntly. "But I didn't think Mrs.
Even if Elgar accompanied him to Amalfi, it would only be for a few days; there was no preventing the fellow's eventual return his visits to the villa, perhaps to Mrs. Gluck's. Again imbecile and insensate What did it all matter? He stopped short. He would sit down and write a letter to Mrs. Baske. A pretty complication, that! What grounds for such a letter as he meditated? The devil!
Baske; she met his look for an instant and smiled, then relapsed into thoughtfulness. The only other visitors to-day were a couple of Germans, who looked like artists and went about in enthusiastic talk; one kept dealing the other severe blows on the chest, which occasionally made the recipient stagger all in pure joy and friendship.
Baske any remark on natural topics which could engage her sympathy, yet to ignore her presence was impossible. "Do you think of seeing Rome and the northern cities when your health is established?" she inquired, in a voice which skilfully avoided any presumption of the reply. "Or shall you return by sea?"
Baske was likely to aid her brother for such a purpose. Have you any reason to think the contrary?" "None that would carry any weight." Mallard paused; then, with a restless movement on his chair exclaimed: "But what has this to do with the matter? What has happened has happened, and there's an end of it. The question is, what ought to be done now?
"I thought so," Miriam replied, very coldly, looking at something else. "Are you going home, Mrs. Baske?" "Yes. I only came out to buy something." "I am just going to see the studio of an Italian to whom Mr. Seaborne introduced me yesterday. It's in the Quattro-Fontane. Would it interest you?" "Thank you, Mr. Mallard; I had rather not go this afternoon."
Baske, and he approached whilst she was still intent on the frescoes. The pausing of his footstep close to her caused her to put down the glass and regard him. Mallard noticed the sudden change from cold remoteness of countenance to pleased recognition. The brightening in her eyes was only for a moment; then she smiled in her usual half-absent way, and received him formally.
The chief ornament of the walls was a large and indifferent copy of Raphael's "St. Cecilia;" there were, too, several gouache drawings of local scenery: a fiery night-view of Vesuvius, a panorama of the Bay, and a very blue Blue Grotto. The whole was blithe, sunny, Neapolitan; sufficiently unlike a sitting-room in Redheck House, Bartles, Lancashire, which Mrs. Baske had in her mind as she wrote.
In a world where pain is the most obvious fact, the task of mercy must surely take precedence of most others." "I am surprised to hear you say this." It was spoken in the tone most characteristic of her, that of a proud condescension. "Why, Mrs. Baske?" She hesitated a little, but made answer: "I don't mean that I think you unfeeling, but your interests seem to be so far from such simple things."
She herself, with her husband's assistance, had learned to read Italian in the only rational way for mature-minded persons simply taking the text and a close translation, and glancing from time to time at a skeleton accidence. This, of course, will not do in the case of fools, but Miriam Baske, all appearances notwithstanding, did not belong to that category.
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