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Updated: June 11, 2025
And, by the way, you will see on the margin of the etching I send you a small sketch of Carville's head. What do you think of it? He came in while I was pulling a proof of this plate and looked at it curiously. 'My smash? he inquired, and I said, 'Yes, your smash, old chap.
Carville's conduct what her real attitude towards us might be. I did not know whether she were wayward or not. I felt bitterly that such things could not happen in a book, in a best seller. And when the days passed, white shrouded, and we discussed the theories we had made and demolished, I found to my astonishment that my friends had taken up a remote position on the subject.
"'Haven't you a letter for me? he says. I gave it to him. 'Captain Carville's nephew, I see. Coming for a trip, or are you going to stick to it? I looked at him. "'I'm going to stick to it if it kills me, I said. 'I'm here for keeps. He nodded. He liked that. "'Got any gear? he says. I said, 'I've got nothing except an extra suit and some pyjamas.
Very willing and all that, but he's been in these big hotel-ships, Western ocean all his life, and as I say, he needs an eye. I was telling you about my brother, if I remember." We murmured that he had, and watched Mr. Carville's obvious enjoyment of his pipe. "Ah!" he said, "the Brignole station in Genoa. Humph!" "You see, my brother has something in his make-up that appeals to a woman.
Before us uprose the wooded heights of Staten Island, and far down the Narrows a glimpse of the blue Atlantic. A couple of tramp steamers, one with much red paint on her bows, were coming up past us, and I noticed the Red Ensign was flying from the poop. With large gestures Mr. Carville's arm swept the horizon, indicating the salient points.
The conversation rambled on irrelevantly after that, and we realized that for Miss Fraenkel at least, the story of Mr. Carville's life was not absorbingly attractive. We enjoyed her visit, as we always did, but her influence, in her present preoccupation, was feverish and to a certain slight degree disturbing.
The usual crowd of foreigners with their dark eyes and Slavic features, shoe-shine boys, touts and officials waited around the entrance. I put my hand on Mr. Carville's arm. "Our steamer isn't in yet," I said. "Suppose we see them land." He glanced up and nodded, and we paused.
Who could tell what it might not lead to, even after so long an interval, with so incalculable a man as this brother? With the bellow of the whistle Mr. Carville's face cleared and assumed its wonted placidity. The deck trembled as the screw began to revolve, and imperceptibly we moved out towards Governor's Island. It was just here, I think, as we began our little six-mile journey to St.
Carville's reappearance, had not a most exciting game of cow-boys, a game in which I for the nonce was a fleeing Indian brave, led to an abrupt encounter with Mrs. Carville. Benvenuto Cellini's scalp already hung at my girdle, visible as a pocket-handkerchief; and he lay far down near the cabbages, to the imaginative eye a writhing and disgusting spectacle.
Of course if we could induce her to assume that the painter-cousin's strange companion was Mr. Carville's brother, she might begin to treat the subject with the necessary seriousness. But I had no hope of this. I was too conscious of the extreme subtlety of Mr. She would probably be astonished at the continuance of our curiosity. She was.
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