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Updated: June 7, 2025
A quarter of an hour later he was in the hall-way of Sally's apartment house, gazing with ill-concealed disgust at the serge-clad back of his cousin Mr. Carmyle, who was engaged in conversation with a gentleman in overalls.
Bruce Carmyle looked down his nose without speaking. A tense moment. "What," asked Uncle Donald, his fingers on the handle, "did you say it was called?" "What was what called?" "That whisky." "O'Rafferty Special." "And wherj get it?" "Bilby's, in Oxford Street." "I'll make a note of it," said Uncle Donald. "And after all I've done for her," said Mr.
I'm dying to know. Mr. Carmyle said you insulted your uncle!" "Donald. Yes, we did have a bit of a scrap, as a matter of fact. He made me go out to dinner with him and we er sort of disagreed. To start with, he wanted me to apologize to old Scrymgeour, and I rather gave it a miss." "Noble fellow!" "Scrymgeour?" "No, silly! You." "Oh, ah!" Ginger blushed.
"Well, I er I promised to send her some books she was anxious to read..." "I shouldn't think she gets much time for reading." "Oh, pretty nearly everything is published in America, what? Bound to be, I mean." "Well, these particular books are not," said Mr. Carmyle shortly. He was finding Ginger's reserve a little trying, and wished that he had been more inventive.
What a bit of luck!" He glanced over his shoulder warily. "Has that blighter pipped?" "Pipped?" "Popped," explained Ginger. "I mean to say, he isn't coming back or any rot like that, is he?" "Mr. Carmyle? No, he has gone." "Sound egg!" said Ginger with satisfaction. "For a moment, when I saw you yarning away together, I thought he might be with your party.
Insistent clapping started it again, but Sally moved away to her table, and he followed her like a shadow. Neither spoke. Bruce Carmyle had said his say, and Sally was sitting staring before her, trying to think. She was tired, tired. Her eyes were burning. She tried to force herself to face the situation squarely. Was it worth struggling? Was anything in the world worth a struggle?
And, as he spoke, the wraith of Uncle Donald, banished till now, returned as large as ever, puffing disapproval through a walrus moustache. "I am employed here," said Sally. Mr. Carmyle started violently. "Employed here?" "As a dancer, you know. Sally broke off, her attention abruptly diverted to something which had just caught her eye at a table on the other side of the room.
It was the way Rockefeller would have spat when approaching the crisis of some delicate financial negotiation. "You'll have to pay just the same," he observed, opening his other eye to lend emphasis to the words. "Of course I shall pay," snapped Mr. Carmyle, irritably. "How much is it?" Money passed. The car rolled off. "Gone to England?" said Ginger, dizzily. "Yes, gone to England." "But why?"
He cast a questioning glance at the mysterious stranger, who, in addition to being in conversation with his sister, had collared his seat. "Oh, hullo, Fill," said Sally. "Fillmore, this is Mr. Carmyle. We met abroad. My brother Fillmore, Mr. Carmyle." Proper introduction having been thus effected, Fillmore approved of Mr. Carmyle. His air of being someone in particular appealed to him.
Carmyle and walked off. He had no further remarks to make. The warmth had gone out of the sunshine and all interest had departed from his life. He felt dull, listless, at a loose end. Not even the thought that his cousin, a careful man with his money, had had to pay a day's hire for a car which he could not use brought him any balm. He loafed aimlessly about the streets.
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