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Updated: June 7, 2025
"A wonderful city." "I've never seen it. I've come from Detroit." "Yes, I heard you were in Detroit." Sally's eyes opened. "You heard I was in Detroit? Good gracious! How?" "I ah called at your New York address and made inquiries," said Mr. Carmyle a little awkwardly. "But how did you know where I lived?" "My cousin er Lancelot told me." Sally was silent for a moment.
That streak of Bohemianism in her which from time to time since their first meeting had jarred upon his orderly mind was forgotten; and all that Mr. Carmyle could remember was the brightness of her eyes, the jaunty lift of her chin, and the gallant trimness of her. Her gay prettiness seemed to flick at him like a whip in the darkness of wakeful nights, lashing him to pursuit.
Well, don't you agree with me, then?" "I do not. A man who would throw away an excellent position simply because..." "Oh, well, if that's your view, I suppose it is useless to talk about it." "Quite." "Still, there's no harm in asking what you propose to do about Gin about Mr. Kemp." Mr. Carmyle became more glacial. "I'm afraid I cannot discuss..."
A loathing for the Flower Garden flowed over Bruce Carmyle, and with it a feeling of suspicion and disapproval of everyone connected with the establishment. He sprang to his feet. "I think I will be going," he said. Sally did not reply. She was watching Ginger, who still stood beside the table recently vacated by Reginald Cracknell. "Good night," said Mr. Carmyle between his teeth.
On his last night in London, there entered to Bruce Carmyle at his apartment in South Audley Street, the Family's chosen representative, the man to whom the Family pointed with pride Uncle Donald, in the flesh. There were two hundred and forty pounds of the flesh Uncle Donald was in, and the chair in which he deposited it creaked beneath its burden.
Bruce Carmyle was aware that most members of that sub-species of humanity, his cousin's personal friends, called him by that familiar and, so Carmyle held, vulgar nickname: but how had this girl got hold of it? If Sally had been less pretty, Mr. Carmyle would undoubtedly have looked disapprovingly at her, for she had given his rather rigid sense of the proprieties a nasty jar.
A warm revulsion of feeling swept over Bruce Carmyle like a returning tide. "You see, I lost my money and had to do something," said Sally. "I see, I see," murmured Mr. Carmyle; and if only Fate had left him alone who knows to what heights of tenderness he might not have soared?
Carmyle had gone east. There was little sympathy between these cousins: yet, oddly enough, their thoughts as they walked centred on the same object. Bruce Carmyle, threading his way briskly through the crowds of Piccadilly Circus, was thinking of Sally: and so was Ginger as he loafed aimlessly towards Hyde Park Corner, bumping in a sort of coma from pedestrian to pedestrian.
How do you mean? You speak as though he had disappeared." "He has disappeared!" "Good heavens! When?" "Shortly after I saw you last." "Disappeared!" Mr. Carmyle frowned. Sally, watching him, found her antipathy stirring again. There was something about this man which she had disliked instinctively from the first, a sort of hardness. "But where has he gone to?" "I don't know." Mr.
You must have hidden depths in you which I have never suspected. As I was taking a ride down Piccadilly the other day on top of a bus, I saw somebody walking along who seemed familiar. It was Mr. Carmyle. So he's back in England again. He didn't see me, thank goodness. I don't want to meet anybody just at present who reminds me of New York.
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