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Updated: May 25, 2025
"It is indeed the right of Monsieur," said Antoinette, respectfully, but with a twinkle in her eye not devoid of significance. Does the crafty old woman suspect? Perhaps my preparations for Carlotta's return have been inordinate, for they have extended to the transformation of the sitting-room downstairs into a lady's boudoir. I have been busy this happy week.
Italy, beloved of Judith, is calling me. Probably Florence will be our settled home. I shall give up this house of madness. The clean sweet love of Judith will purify my heart of this poisonous passion, and in the end there will be peace. I have taken Carlotta's photograph from its frame and cast it into the fire, thus burning her for her witchcraft. I watched the flames leap and curl.
I know this was so. We sat down to table in the middle of the great room a quiet corner on the balcony away from the band is not to Carlotta's taste like any conventional party of four, and at first talked of indifferent matters. Conciergerie dinner-parties in the Terror always began with a discussion of the latest cure for megrims, or the most fashionable cut of a panier.
Most of Carlotta's male friends gave most of theirs to polo, jazz, and chorus girls. He began to covet Philip more than ever for a possible, and he hoped probable, son-in-law. It played into his purposes excellently that Philip on returning invited him to supper on the Hill that night. He wanted to meet the boy's people, especially the mother.
I stood baffled before it, as I had stood so often before Carlotta's soul. The result of this portion of my search was the discovery, not of a new theory, but of an old pain. I went back to the ship in a despondent mood, and caused deep distress to one of the gentlest creatures I have ever met.
Then she looked up frankly. "I haven't said anything because I didn't know what to say. He is Alan Massey, the artist. I met him at Carlotta's. He wants to marry me." "But you have not already accepted him?" "No, I couldn't. He he isn't the kind of man you would want me to marry. He is trying to be, for my sake though. I think he will succeed.
It was Saturday and Phil had little time for idle conjecture, but he did wonder every now and then that morning what business Carlotta's father could possibly have with himself, and if by any chance Carlotta had sent him.
If Carlotta's gossamer follies had been thrown into the vagabond court of the Queen of Navarre, I wonder whether those delectable stories would have been written? As Antoinette does not understand literary English, and as Carlotta did not know what in the world I was talking about, I was master of the conversational situation.
When September came Carlotta, who had been ostensibly visiting Tony though spending a good deal of her time "in the moon with Phil" as she put it, departed for Crest House, carrying Philip with her "for inspection," as he dubbed it somewhat ruefully. He wasn't particularly enamored of the prospect of being passed upon by Carlotta's friends and relatives.
Sidney found her tossing restlessly on her high white bed, and put her cool hand over Carlotta's hot one. "Did you send for me?" "Hours ago." Then, seeing her operating-room uniform: "You've been THERE, have you?" "Is there anything I can do, Carlotta?" Excitement had dyed Sidney's cheeks with color and made her eyes luminous. The girl in the bed eyed her, and then abruptly drew her hand away.
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