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Updated: May 19, 2025
Lathrop, in a kind of dressing-gown, as clumsily cut as the form it wrapped, his reddish hair and large head catching the firelight, had the look of one lazily at bay, as wrapped in a cloud of smoke, he twined from one speaker to the other. "So you were at another of these meetings last night?" said Blaydes, with a mouth half smiling, half contemptuous. "Yes. A disgusting failure!
"With pleasure, Mr. Blaydes." A touch upon the bell summoned the serving woman. "Mrs. Ricketts, another jug of the right amber, and two beakers. I know not if you smoke, Mr. Lashmar? Why, that's right. Two yards of Broseley also, Mrs. Ricketts." Breakspeare had produced his pouch, which he opened and held to Martin. "Here's a new mixture, my own blending, which I should like you to try.
Dyce soon understood that here, at all events, he was not called upon for eloquence, or disquisition. Martin Blaydes had become rather dull of car, and found it convenient to do most of the talking himself.
They didn't even take the trouble to pelt us." The poet Merian by name moved angrily on his chair. Blaydes threw a sly look at him, as he knocked the ash from his cigarette. "And what the deuce do you expect to get by it all?" Paul Lathrop paused a moment and at last said with a lift of the eyebrows: "Well! I have no illusions!" Merian broke out indignantly
Precisely 'Great Scott!" said Lathrop, mocking. "I may add that everybody here has their own romance on the subject. They are convinced that Winnington will soon cure her of her preposterous notions, and restore her, tamed, to a normal existence." Blaydes meditated, his aspect showing a man checked.
Sympathies and animosities: they're enough for me." "And you really are in sympathy with these women?" said the other. The tone was incredulous. Merian brought his hand violently down on the table. "Don't you talk about them, Blaydes! I tell you, they're out of your ken." "I daresay," said Blaydes, composedly. "I was only trying to get at what Lathrop means by going into the business."
I shall not make a doit out of the whole transaction!" "Then you're a d d fool," said Blaydes, in a passion. "And a dishonest fool besides!" "Easy, please! What hold should I have on this girl this splendid creature if I were merely to make money out of her? As it is, she's obliged to me she treats me like a gentleman. I thought you had matrimonial ideas."
Breakspeare, too, smiled, but with only half-assent; he reserved his bigamous alternative. Martin Blaydes took a long draught from his beaker, puffed half-a-dozen rings of smoke, and pursued his diatribe in the same good-natured growl. "The fury to get rich who is so responsible for it as the crowd of indolent, luxurious and vain women? The frenzy to become notorious almost entirely women's work.
"I don't believe you've got the ghost of a chance!" grumbled Blaydes, his mind smarting under the thought of the lost four hundred pounds, out of which his debt might have been paid. "Nor do I," said Lathrop, coolly. "But I choose to keep on equal terms with her. You can sell me up when you like." He lounged to the window, and threw it open.
For there, in the doorway of the cottage, stood the young journalist, waiting and smoking. He was evidently in good humour. "Well? She came?" "Of course she came. But it doesn't matter to you." "Oh, doesn't it! I suppose she wants you to sell something more for her?" Lathrop did not reply. Concerning Gertrude Marvell, he had not breathed a word to Blaydes.
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