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And it struck him that while Powell was on shore to-day he had undoubtedly had his hair cut. This interested him though why, he would have found it difficult to say. "Mr. Bates thought you should be informed that a gentleman called early yesterday afternoon, as he said by appointment." Yes certainly Powell had had his hair cut. "Did the gentleman give his name?" "Yes, sir, M. Paul Destournelle."
And victory had become a maddening necessity to her. Destournelle had forced her hand. His natural infirmity of purpose relieved her of the fear he could work her any great mischief. Yet his ingenuity, inspired by wounded vanity, might prove beyond her calculations. It is not always safe to forecast the future by experience of the past in relation to such a being as Destournelle!
Madame de Vallorbes put her handkerchief up to her face, and over the edge of it she contemplated Paul Destournelle. Every detail of his appearance was not only familiar, but associated in her mind with some incident of his and her common past. Now the said details asserted themselves, so it seemed to her, with an impertinence of premeditated provocation.
"You, who have praised it a thousand times you deny the existence of my genius?" almost shrieked M. Destournelle. He was very much in earnest, and in a very sorry case. His limbs twitched. He appeared on the verge of an hysteric seizure. To plague him thus was a charmingly pretty sport, but one safest carried on with closed doors not in so public a spot.
And I hate to say so but she treated him a little too flagrantly. And then and then " Honoria put her hands over her eyes and shook back her head angrily. "It wasn't one man, Richard." Dickie went white to the lips. "I know that," he said. He moved forward a few steps. "Who is it now? Destournelle?" "Oh no no" Honoria said.
Decidedly she did well to begin with the black dress, since it had in it a quality rather of romance than of worldliness! Meanwhile Zélie, kneeling, straightened out the folds of the long train. "Ah!" she exclaimed. "I had forgotten also to inform madame that M. Destournelle has arrived in Naples.
"Ah, well, conventionality proved perfectly competent to avenge herself!" she exclaimed. "The animal Destournelle took the average, the banal view, as might have been anticipated. He had the insane presumption to suppose it was himself, not his art, in which I was interested. I explained his error, and departed. I recovered my equanimity. That took time. I felt soiled, degraded.
They were the profound, because the practical philosophers! Therefore let us gamble, gamble, gamble, be the stake small or great, as long as the merest flicker of life, or fraction of uttermost farthing, is left! And so, when Destournelle took up his lament again, she listened to him, for the moment, with remarkable lightness of heart.
Helen read it aloud one bleak January evening, by the light of a single candle, to her friend M. Paul Destournelle, poet and novelist with whom, just then, by her own desire, her relations were severely platonic and they both wept. The application, though delicate, was obvious.
Destournelle's hands twitched with agitation, yet he contrived not only to replace his Panama hat, but opened his white umbrella as a precaution against sunstroke. And this diverted, even while exasperating, Helen. Measures to ensure personal safety were so characteristic of Destournelle.
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