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Updated: May 18, 2025
"I forbid you to have anything to do with the fellow." "You, Jaff Chayne, told me to mind my own business. Just you mind yours." "It is my business," he shouted, "to see that you don't disgrace yourself with a beast of a fellow like that." "What did you say? Disgrace myself?" She drew herself up magnificently. "Do you think I would disgrace myself with any man living? You insult me."
At last, one Friday evening, while I was engaged in my forlorn and unprofitable game, the butler entered the drawing-room with unperturbed announcement: "Mr. Chayne on the telephone, sir." I sent the card table flying amid the wreckage of my lay-out and rushed to the telephone. "Hullo! That you, Jaff?" "Yes, old man. Very much me. A devil of a lot of me. How are you?"
Up to these last four years, on some day in each July his friend and he had been wont to foregather at some village in the Alps, Lattery coming from a Government Office in Whitehall, Chayne now from some garrison town in England, now from Malta or from Alexandria, and sometimes from a still farther dependency.
"I thought we might try a new route up the Aiguille sans Nom," he suggested, and Michel assented but slowly, without the old heartiness and without that light in his face which the suggestion of something new used always to kindle. But again Chayne shut his ears. "I was very lucky to find you here," he went on cheerily. "I wrote so late that I hardly hoped for it."
So gay a wedding reception I have never attended, and I am sure it was nothing but Jaffery's pervasive influence that infused vitality into the deadly and decorous mob. It was a miracle wrought by a rich Silenic personality. I had never guessed before the magnetic power of Jaffery Chayne.
How dared editors employ men to write on Adrian's work who were unable to distinguish between it and that of Jaffery Chayne? One day, when she talked like this, Barbara lost her temper. "I think you're an ungrateful little wretch.
Yet that too she must have known before. Why then should the pretence now so greatly trouble her? Chayne watched the two men pacing in the garden. Certainly he had never seen them in so intimate a comradeship.
A girl had moved from step to step, across that slope, looking down its steep glittering incline without a tremor. It was the same girl who now leaned to him and with shaking lips and eyes tortured with fear cried, "I am afraid." By his recollection of that day upon the heights Chayne measured the greatness of her present trouble. "Why, Sylvia? Why are you afraid?"
He drew near to the hotel where Chayne was staying and saw under the lamp above the door a guide whom he knew talking with a young girl. The young girl raised her head. It was she who had said, "I am sorry." As Michel came within the circle of light she recognized him.
He talked of other things until the restaurant grew empty and the waiters began to turn out the lights as a hint to these two determined loiterers. Then in the darkness, for now there was but one light left, and that at a little distance from their table, Chayne leaned forward and turning to Sylvia, as they sat side by side: "You have been happy to-night?"
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