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Updated: June 19, 2025
There were things too in her eyes that he could neither read nor reproduce. Dawney would often stroll out to them after his daily visit, and lying on the grass, his arms crossed behind his head, and a big cigar between his lips, would gently banter everybody. Tea came at five o'clock, and then Mrs. Decie appeared armed with a magazine or novel, for she was proud of her literary knowledge.
Miss Naylor, who had been rolling a pellet of bread, concealed it hastily. "They are always given a chance to repent I believe," she said. "For what they are about to receive," drawled Dawney. Mrs. Decie signalled with her fan: "We are trying to express the inexpressible shall we go into the garden?" All rose; Harz stood by the window, and in passing, Christian looked at him.
"There has been one every day for months," muttered Dawney. "But to leave without a word, and go no one knows where! B -is 'viveur' no doubt, mais, mon Dieu, que voulez vous? She was always a poor, pale thing. Why! when my " he flourished his cigar; "I was not always -what I should have been -one lives in a world of flesh and blood -we are not all angels -que diable!
"A wife is a wife," pursued Herr Paul; "a man has a right to her society." "What do you say to that, sir?" asked Dawney. Mr. Treffry tugged at his beard: "Make a woman live with you, if she don't want to? I call it low." "But, my dear," exclaimed Herr Paul, "how should you know? You have not been married." "No, thank the Lord!" Mr. Treffry replied.
Harz dodged before the canvas like a fencer finding his distance; Dawney took his seat on a packingcase. "The snows have gone with a rush this year," he drawled. "The Talfer comes down brown, the Eisack comes down blue; they flow into the Etsch and make it green; a parable of the Spring for you, my painter." Harz mixed his colours. "I've no time for parables," he said, "no time for anything.
I'm going to paint the river to-day." He ran up the bare broad stairs, and Dawney followed leisurely, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his waistcoat, and his head thrown back. In the attic which filled the whole top story, Harz had pulled a canvas to the window. He was a young man of middle height, square shouldered, active, with an angular face, high cheek-bones, and a strong, sharp chin.
Treffry drank his wine off at a gulp, and sucked his moustache in sharply. "She was a fool to marry him," said Dawney; "they haven't a point in common; she hates him like poison, and she's the better of the two. But it doesn't pay a woman to run off like that. B -had better hurry up, though. What do you think, sir?" he said to Mr. Treffry. "Eh?" said Mr. Treffry; "how should I know?
It shan't be my fault, there's my hand on that." Mr. Treffry lay with his eyes fixed on the ceiling; at last he said: "I want to live." "Yes yes." "I feel better now; don't make a fuss about it. It'll be very awkward if I die just now. Patch me up, for the sake of my niece." Dawney nodded. "One minute, there are a few things I want," and he went out. A moment later Greta stole in on tiptoe.
"Then you'd forgive her, sir, whatever happened," Dawney said. "Forgiveness is another thing. I leave that to your sanctimonious beggars. But, hunt a woman! Hang it, sir, I'm not a cad!" and bringing his hand down with a rattle, he added: "This is a subject that don't bear talking of." Sarelli fell back in his seat, twirling his moustaches fiercely.
Harz sat down on the bed again, and for a long time stayed without moving, his eyes fixed on the floor. The sight of him, so desperate and miserable, hurt the young doctor. "Can you get to bed by yourself?" he asked at last. Harz nodded. "Then, good-night, old chap!" and Dawney left the room. He took his hat and turned towards the Villa. Between the poplars he stopped to think.
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