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Updated: May 7, 2025
"No," Miss Longfellow readily agreed. "We don't like the New Woman over here. Perhaps Mr. Beechtree admires her though." "The New Woman?" Henry doubtfully queried. "Is there a new woman? I don't know the phrase, except from old Victorian Punch Pictures.... Thank you, yes; a little cherry brandy." "Ah, is the woman question, then, over in your country died out?
A cheerful girl, thought Henry. "Viva the League of Nations!" she cried, and drank brightly of her marsala. Dr. Franchi, with an indulgent smile for youthful exuberance, drank too. "The hope for the world," he said. "You don't drink this toast, Mr. Beechtree?" "My paper," said Henry, "believes that such hope for the world as there may be lies elsewhere." "Ah, your paper. And you yourself?"
But is it, I wonder, enough to make one wonderful that one's husband should disappear alive? You see, they may not be dead, these poor delegates; they may exist, hidden away somewhere." "Oh, dear, yes, I hope so. Isn't it all too weird? Have you any theories, Mr. Beechtree?"
Yes; I would like to know him, the ex-cardinal; he looks witty and shrewd, and at the same time an idealist.... But how late they are in beginning. My watch is seldom right, but I imagine it must be after ten-thirty." The young man Grattan, with whom Henry had dined last night, lounged in, with his cynical smile. "You're very young and innocent, Beechtree. I suppose you've been here since ten.
It's only Beechtree," said another voice, after a moment's inspection, and Henry, though he loved not the Morning Post, blessed its correspondent. "Good Lord, you're right.... What are you doing here, Beechtree? Is your paper in this damned Republican plot, as well as Sinn Fein, Bolsheviks, Germans, and the Pope? I wouldn't put it past the British Bolshevist to have a finger in it "
Charles Wilbraham turned on this gentleman the indifferent and contemptuous regard with which one might look at and dismiss some small and irrelevant insect. "And who, if I may ask, is Mr. Henry Beechtree?" "The correspondent, sir, of one of the newspapers of your country the British Bolshevist." Charles laughed. "Indeed? Hardly, perhaps, an organ which commands much influence.
It is past the hour.... At this afternoon's meeting of Committee 9, Mr. Beechtree, I will lay these suggestions of yours before my colleagues, and we will consider what action shall be taken. You will be present. Meanwhile, Alvarez, have orders taken to the police to explore the subterranean passages. Mr. Beechtree, you will be able to direct them to the means of entry, will you not."
If Canon Waring had heard these spiteful on-dits, he paid no attention to them; he was a high-minded enthusiast, and knew a gentleman and a scholar when he saw one. "The correspondent of the British Bolshevist," he added, "and a co-religionist of Your Eminence's." The ex-cardinal gave Henry his delicate hand, and a shrewd and agreeable smile. "I am glad to meet you, Mr. Beechtree.
Hat, stick, overcoat, scarf that is everything." He walked down to the Eaux-Vives jetty, where a smart electric launch did indeed await him, and in it a young lady of handsome appearance, who regarded him with friendly interest and said, in pronounced American with an Italian accent, "I'm real pleased to meet you, Mr. Beechtree. Step right in. We'll start at once."
"It's more interesting, and I'm a journalist. But in this case there are reasons " "Now isn't this too terribly exciting! Reasons! Just you tell me all you know, Mr. Beechtree, if it's not indiscreet. Non son' giornalista, io!" "I don't know anything. Except that there are people who might be glad to get Svensen out of the way." "But who are they? I thought every one respected him ever so!"
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