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Updated: June 15, 2025
She stood there looking at the man whom she had come to visit. "Julien," she said, "I wanted a few words with you." It was impossible for him to remain altogether unmoved. Whatever else might be the truth, she had risked most of the things that were dear to her in life by this visit. "Mrs. Carraby," he declared, "I am entirely at your service.
"Ah, well," she remarked, "you were too busy flirting with that Carraby woman to discover all my excellent qualities. We mustn't stay here, must we? Are you very busy, or do you want to drive me to my friend's house? Of course, meeting you here will be the end of me if any one sees us. Still, I don't suppose you object to a little scandal, and the more I get the happier I shall be."
Lord Cardington told me himself that they were the most splendid political prose he had ever read in his life." "That may be true enough," Carraby growled, "but they make it all the harder for me. No doubt Portel was a good Minister. No doubt he was doing very well in his post. Now he writes these letters every one remembers it, every one is asking for him back again. It's hell, Mabel!
We can go to the very gates because when we get there we know how to shrug our shoulders and turn away. I am not sure that Mrs. Carraby has breeding enough for that. She'll go through, if Bob has his way." "You are becoming rather an advanced young person," Julien remarked, as he paid the bill. "My dear Julien," she said, "I've told you before that you never knew me.
"I cannot conceive what it is that you want to say to me." She lifted her eyes to his, and though there was nothing unusual about them there were few people, indeed, who could tell you what color they were men seldom forgot it when Mrs. Carraby looked at them steadily. "I do not know, myself," she said. "I do not know why I have come." Julien laughed unnaturally. "Pray be seated," he begged.
One doesn't think about such things, nowadays." They stood quite still in the centre of that very handsome apartment. They were almost alien figures in the world in which they moved, Carraby, the rankest of newcomers, carried into political life by his wife's ambitions, his own self-amassed fortune, and a sort of subtle cunning a very common substitute for brains; Mrs.
Poor Henry used to lock himself in his study when any of them were about the place, and what it would have been if they were really able to call themselves connections, I cannot imagine. You were speaking of the Carraby woman a few minutes ago. My dear Eva! Of course, you have heard about her? Her husband, when he resigned, gave out that he was obliged to go abroad for his wife's health.
Carraby came a little further into the room. She sank into an easy-chair and sat there. Her hands were tightly clenched, her face was hard and cold, her tone icy. Yet one felt that underneath a tempest was raging. "You know, Algernon," she went on, "we had some hard times when you first began to make your way a little. When we first took this house, even, things weren't altogether easy.
"I knew that I could trust you or I would never have put such an idea into your head." She laughed; a characteristic laugh it was, quite cold, quite mirthless, apparently quite meaningless. Carraby turned back to the letter, tore open the envelope and spread it out before them. He read it out aloud in a sing-song voice. Downing Street. Tuesday I had your sweet little note an hour ago.
The German Press the inspired portion of it, at any rate is backing all this up by articles extremely friendly towards France and deriding her friendship with England." "This, too, I have noticed," Julien admitted. "Carraby is in hot water already," Kendricks went on.
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