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Updated: June 18, 2025
Loo was surprised to find that Dormer Colville was less antipathetic than he had anticipated. For the last month, night and day, he had dreaded Colville's arrival, and now that he was here he was almost glad to see him; almost glad to quit Farlingford. And his heart was hot with anger against Miriam. Turner's offer had at all events been worth considering.
Where Dormer Colville's persuasions had failed, where the memory of that journey through Royalist France had yet left him doubting, the incidents of the last few days had clinched the matter once for all. Barebone was going back to France.
"Where we all get our faces from, I suppose!" answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with her easy laugh. She was always mistress of the situation. "The heavenly warehouse, one supposes. His name is Barebone. He is a friend of Dormer's." "Any friend of Dormer Colville's commands my interest." Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced quickly at her companion beneath the shade of her lace-trimmed parasol.
He had recovered a noonday suavity by the time he reached Colville's door, and bowed himself out, after lighting the candles within, with a sweet plenitude of politeness, which Colville, even in his gloomy mood, could not help admiring in a man in his shirt sleeves, with only one suspender up.
Is it possible?" cried Colville, feeling something fateful in the chance. "I was just going to see you." "I'm fortunate in meeting you, then. Shall we go to my room?" he asked, at a hesitation in Colville's manner. "No, no," said the latter; "come in here." He led the way back into his room, and struck a match to light the candles on his chimney.
I think if he hadn't talked Ruskin so much, Jenny Milbury might have treated him better. It was very priggish in him." "Oh, I can't imagine Mr. Colville's being priggish!" "He's very much improved. He used to be quite a sloven in his dress; you know how very slovenly most American gentlemen are in their dress, at any rate. I think that influenced her against him too."
The boxes, tier over tier, blazed with the light of candelabra which added their sparkle to that of the gas jets. "You and Effie go before," said Mrs. Bowen to Imogene. She made them take hands like children, and mechanically passed her own hand through Colville's arm. A mask in red from head to foot attached himself to the party, and began to make love to her in excellent pantomime.
"A venture of Dormer Colville's, I think you told me while we were having coffee. One never gets coffee hot enough in a private house, but yours was all right." "Yes," mumbled Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, behind her quick finger, busy with the veil.
The lady's husband did not speak English, and it was probably what they had been saying that she interpreted to him, for he smiled, looking forward to catch Colville's eye in a friendly way, and as if he would not have him take his wife's talk too seriously. The Italian gentleman on Colville's right was politely offering him the salad, which had been left for the guests to pass to one another.
Whereas, now, you see, it is all safe and you can invest it in the beginning of next year in some good English securities. It seems providential, does it not?" He rose as he spoke and held out his hand to say good-bye. He asked the question of Colville's necktie, apparently, for he smiled stupidly at it. "Well, I do not understand business after all, I admit that," Mrs. St.
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