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Updated: June 10, 2025
The approaches to wedlock are a subject of honourable convention, not to be confused with the trivialities of romance. "I'm going down to Liverpool," he said, presently, "to meet Trafford Romaine." It gratified him to see the gleam in Miss Derwent's eyes the' announcement had its hoped-for effect.
Otway seems to be taking a holiday," she said at length. "Yes, so it seemed to me," fell from Olga, who caught her mother's eye. "It'll do him good," was Miss Derwent's remark. She exchanged no glance with the others, and seemed to be thinking of something else. Next morning, though the sun shone brilliantly, she did not appear in the garden before breakfast.
Eyrecourt or her address. "Thanks to Lord Loring's picture gallery," he thought, "I have found the man!" He took up his pen and made a little memorandum "Winterfield. Derwent's Hotel." To Mr. Bitrake. Private and Confidential.
She was conscious that she looked genteel, and her mental sky was as cloudless as the firmament above her while she watched the train draw into the station. She scanned each platform as the cars slowly passed, and soon her search was rewarded by the sight of Miss Derwent's brown-clothed figure and the eyes that laughed a response to the eager face below. Miss Martha trotted briskly up the steps.
Lem's information with scarcely a smile at its manner. "I tell you, though, money won't buy everything," went on the housekeeper, scalding a fresh panful of china. "Here's a fresh wiper, Miss Sylvy. Mr. Derwent's ben entirely incapacitated for business or pleasure for years. What good's his money to him?
During the rest of the evening but little was said; Cecilia was not talkative, and young Delvile was so absent, that three times his mother reminded him of an engagement to meet his father, who that night was expected at the Duke of Derwent's house in town, before he heard that she spoke to him, and three times more before, when he had heard, he obeyed.
They barely spoke to each other, and at table Irene took no heed of him. But with the others she talked as brightly as usual, managing, none the less, to do full justice to the meal. Miss Derwent's vigour of mind and body was not sustained on air, and she never affected a delicate appetite. There was still something of the healthy schoolgirl in her manner.
After greetings, he stood before Miss Derwent's chair conversing with her; a cup of tea in his steady hand, his body just bent, his forehead curiously wrinkled a habit of his when he talked for civility's sake and nothing else.
Mexican Sam sent a ball neatly through the fulness of Nancy Derwent's shooting jacket. "Lie down lie down!" snapped Littlefield. "Close to the horse flat on the ground so." He almost threw her upon the grass against the back of the recumbent Fly.
"No bad news, I hope?" said Helen, who had glanced quickly over the few lines from her husband, now at Ostend. "No, but startling. You may as well read the letter." It was written in Eustace Derwent's best style; really a very good letter, both as to composition and in the matter of feeling.
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