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Updated: May 21, 2025
He took her to lunch once or twice to Regali's, which created a coterie of female enemies, but Flamby regarded all women in a more charitable manner since her meeting with Mrs. Chumley, and some of her enemies afterwards became her friends, for she bore them no malice, but sought them out and did her utmost to understand them.
And won't be till supper-time. But, I say, Fleet, how the deuce? funny sort of proceeding! You haven't introduced me. 'The lady bears my name, Mr. Chumley Potts. With a bow to the lady's profile and a mention of a glimpse at Baden, Potts ejaculated: 'It happened this morning? 'You allude to the marriage. It happened this morning. 'How do I get to Canleys? 'I drive you.
Chumley Potts offered Ambrose Mallard fair odds that the neat little trap of the chief sporting journal, which had a reputation to maintain, would be over one or other of the bridges crossing the Thames first. Mallard had been struck by the neat little trap of an impudent new and lower-priced journal, which had a reputation to gain. He took the proffered odds, on the cry as of a cracker splitting.
The letter posted and flying, Lord Fleetwood was kinder to Chumley Potts; he had a friendly word for Gower Woodseer; though both were heathens, after their diverse fashions, neither of them likely ever to set out upon the grand old road of Rome: Lord Feltre's 'Appian Way of the Saints and Comforters.
And surely grey is what is known as 'half-mourning' too, is it not? Absolutely correct form." "But it may be frightfully dear. I will ask the price when Mrs. Chumley is with me." Flamby was weakening. Don grasped her firmly by the arm and led her vastly perturbed into the shop, where a smiling saleswoman accosted them. "This lady wishes to see the grey gown you have in the window," he said.
"Thank you so much," said Flamby, faint traces of mist disturbing her sight. "Not at all, dear. I'm glad. The longer you stay the gladder I shall be. What an absurd word gladder. There is something wrong about it, surely, Don?" "More glad would perhaps be preferable, Aunt." Mrs. Chumley immediately succumbed to silent merriment for a time. "How absurd!" she said presently. "Gladder!
Chumley was far from tall, the criterion was peculiar, but Flamby accepted it without demur. "I'm wearing high heels," she said. "I am no taller than you, really." "I should have thought you were, dear. I am glad you wear high heels. They are so smart. It's a mistake to wear low heels. Men hate them. Don't you think men hate them, Don?"
Chumley Potts vouches for it. Speaks foreign English. He thinks her more ninny than knave: she is the tool of a wily plotter, picked up off the highway road by Lord Fleetwood as soon as he had her in his eye. Sir Meeson Corby wrings his frilled hands to depict the horror of the hands of that tramp the young lord had her from. They afflict him malariously still.
Being met with a smile, she smiled in response and her smile was oddly like that of her nephew. Flamby knew in a moment that Mrs. Chumley was a sweet old lady, and that hers was one of those rare natures whose possessors see ill in no one, but good in all. "Dear me," said Mrs. Chumley, in a surprised silvery voice, a voice peculiarly restful and soothing, "it is Don." She stood up.
Through the little mirror immediately below the pastel Flamby studied Paul covertly. He had aged; all the beauty of his face resided now in his eyes. Two years had changed him from a young and handsome man to one whose youth is left behind, and who from the height of life's pilgrimage looks down sadly but unfalteringly into a valley of shadows. He turned to her. "Mrs. Chumley?"
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