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Updated: June 16, 2025
"Don't you feel that we must get the natives to guide us to put us in the way? It is only they who can really feel the poetry of it all." Her face kindled. Arthur Delaine, who thought that her remark was one of the foolish exaggerations of nice women, was none the less conscious as she made it, that her appearance was charming all indeed that a man could desire in a wife.
She talked a great deal with Delaine, and Mariette held a somewhat acid dispute with her on modern French books Loti, Anatole France, Zola authors whom his soul loathed. But the day had forged a lasting bond between Anderson and Elizabeth, and they knew it. The night rose clear and cold, with stars shining on the snow.
The only other alternatives were either to cut himself off at once from his English friends that, of course, was what Delaine wished or to appeal to Lady Merton's sympathy and pity. Well, he would do neither and Delaine might go hang! Mrs. Ginnell, with her apron over her head to shield her from a blazing sun, appeared at the corner of the house. "You're wanted, sir!" Her tone was sulky.
As he leant over the railing of the balcony, Delaine could see far below, in the wood, the flutter of a white dress. It belonged to Lady Merton, and the man beside her was George Anderson.
The panic came on later, when the Christy-minstrel-collared, burnt-corked Master of the Revels was gallantly helping her up the short side-ladder, and culminated when he retreated, and left her there, standing on the platform in the bewildering glare of the acetylene footlights, a little, rather slight and flat-chested figure of a girl, blue-eyed and yellow-haired, in a washed-out flowery "blowse," and a "voylet" delaine skirt that had lost its pristine beauty, and showed faded and shabby in the yellow gas-flare.
But that son had still to determine his own line of action. When at last he began to write, he wrote steadily and without a pause. Nor was the letter long. On the morning following his conversation with Anderson on the Laggan road, Delaine impatiently awaited the arrival of the morning mail from Laggan. When it came, he recognised Anderson's handwriting on one of the envelopes put into his hand.
You will wonder, then, that Mr. Paul Wimple should have blushed and struggled and died in the forlorn little "Athenaeum," and that Sally should sit down in her loneliness and "that fright of a delaine" to wait for customers that came not, when in their old friends' house were comfortable mansions, and in their old friends' hearts tearful kisses and welcome free as air.
Lowe, with a coldness, or rather coarseness of manner, that shocked the higher tone of Mrs. Wykoff's feelings, "what is she as a seamstress? Can she fit children? little girls like my Angela and Grace?" "I have never been so well suited in my life," replied Mrs. Wykoff. "Let me show you a delaine for Anna which she finished yesterday." Mrs.
Yesterday she had worn a dress of light wool delaine; but this morning, she decided largely, summer had practically come; and, on her own authority, she got an affair of thin pineapple cloth out of the yellow camphorwood chest. She hurriedly finished weaving her heavy chestnut hair into two gleaming plaits, fastened a muslin guimpe at the back, and slipped into her dress.
She, too, was an orphan, and her sympathies were all enlisted in behalf of the neglected 'Lena. She had heard from Anna of the brown delaine, and in her own mind she had determined that it should be fitted with the utmost taste of which she was capable. Her speculations, however, were brought to a close by Mrs.
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