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Updated: June 7, 2025
You read in the paper that some manager or other is putting on some show or other, when really the chap who's actually supplying the pieces of eight is some anonymous lad in the background." "That is just what has happened, and it makes it worse than ever. Fillmore tells me that your cousin, Mr. Carmyle, is providing the money." This did interest Ginger. He sat up with a jerk.
Carmyle was not a man who readily allowed himself to be disturbed by life's little surprises, but at the present moment he could not help feeling slightly dazed. He recognized Sally now as the French girl who had attracted his cousin Lancelot's notice on the beach. At least he had assumed that she was French, and it was startling to be addressed by her now in fluent English.
Carmyle invited Fillmore he seems to love Fillmore and me to Monk's Crofton, and I hadn't even the shadow of an excuse for refusing. So I came, and I am now sitting writing to you in an enormous bedroom with an open fire and armchairs and every other sort of luxury. Fillmore is out golfing. He sails for New York on Saturday on the Mauretania.
And Bruce Carmyle was financing him... It was illogical, but Sally could not help feeling that when she had not the optimism to say "if" he lost his money, she would somehow be under an obligation to him, as if the disaster had been her fault. She disliked, with a whole-hearted intensity, the thought of being under an obligation to Mr. Carmyle.
Carmyle, who since the waiter's departure, had been thawing, stiffened again at the mention of Ginger. "Indeed?" he said, coldly. "Apparently you got intimate." Sally did not like his tone. He seemed to be criticizing her, and she resented criticism from a stranger. Her eyes opened wide and she looked dangerously across the table.
"Why 'apparently'? I told you that we had got intimate, and I explained how. You can't stay shut up in an elevator half the night with anybody without getting to know him. I found Mr. Kemp very pleasant." "Really?" "And very interesting." Mr. Carmyle raised his eyebrows. "Would you call him interesting?" "I did call him interesting." Sally was beginning to feel the exhilaration of battle.
The unexpectedness of the blow was crushing. He followed his cousin out into the sunshine in a sort of dream. Bruce Carmyle was addressing the driver of the expensive automobile. "I find I shall not want the car. You can take it back to the garage." The chauffeur, a moody man, opened one half-closed eye and spat cautiously.
Carmyle quite so much as she had done a few minutes ago, but it was courteous of him to give her dinner, and she tried to like him as much as she could. "By the way," she said, "my name is Nicholas. I always think it's a good thing to start with names, don't you?" "Mine..." "Oh, I know yours. Ginger Mr. Kemp told me." Mr.
Carmyle frowned again. The subject of Ginger was plainly a sore one. "And I don't want to know," he went on heatedly, a dull flush rising in the cheeks which Sally was sure he had to shave twice a day. "I don't care to know. The Family have washed their hands of him. For the future he may look after himself as best he can. I believe he is off his head."
"How the devil do I know why?" Bruce Carmyle would have found his best friend trying at this moment. Gaping Ginger gave him almost a physical pain. "All I know is what the janitor told me, that she sailed on the Mauretania this morning." The tragic irony of this overcame Ginger. That he should have stood on the roof, calmly watching the boat down the river... He nodded absently to Mr.
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