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Updated: May 17, 2025
"We really are heartily ashamed of ourselves for disturbing you at such an hour, Sir George," the man said, "but you will pardon us when you understand the position. I am the Marquis de St. Ethol, and this is my wife. I have a letter to you from my friend the Duke of Chestow, with whom we have been staying." Duncombe concealed his astonishment as well as he was able.
Duncombe frowned, and something flashed in his eyes which made the manager very glad that he had not put forward this suggestion on his own account. "With regard to the boy," he said, "this might be likely enough. But with regard to the young lady it is of course wildly preposterous. I will go to the police myself," he added, rising. "One moment, Sir George," the manager continued.
Duncombe asked. "I myself," the Marquise answered, "accompanied her there. It was terrible." Duncombe looked very grave. "I am indeed sorry to hear this," he said. "There can be no possibility of any mistake, then?" "None whatever!" the Marquise declared. "You will permit me to see her?" Duncombe begged. "If I am not a very old friend I am at least an intimate one." The Marquise shook her head.
Nowhere was there the slightest trace of a woman's presence, for Duncombe had no sisters, and his was entirely a bachelor household. Duncombe himself and Andrew Pelham were seated in great easy-chairs in front of the open window. It was his first fine evening at home, and he was drinking in great draughts of the fresh pure air, fragrant with the perfume of roses and huge clusters of wallflowers.
"Andrew!" "Yes, old chap!" "Let me look at her photograph again." Andrew drew it from his pocket and passed it over. Duncombe studied it for several moments under the lamplight. "You are right, Andrew," he said slowly. "For her the other things would not be possible. I wonder " His fingers clung to the photograph. He looked across at his friend. There was a slight flush in his face.
There is one who does know her Saviour, and I did love to have a few words of peace with her." "And was that what was objected to?" "Yes; they said it would change the whole character of the institution." "Who did?" "Cecil Mrs. Charnock Poynsett. I think Lady Tyrrell and Mrs. Duncombe desired her.
Spencer wrote out his luncheon with the extreme care of the man to whom eating has passed to its proper place amongst the arts, and left to Duncombe the momentous question of red wine or white. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, and looked thoughtfully across at his companion. "Sir George," he said, "you have placed me in a very painful position." Duncombe glanced up from his hors d'oeuvre.
"It's nothing," he answered with a little laugh, in which all the elements of mirth were lacking, "nothing at all! A note from Heggs, my head-keeper about some poachers. Confound the fellow!" Andrew's hand was suddenly upon the sideboard, travelling furtively across its shining surface. Duncombe watched it with a curious sense of fascination. He felt altogether powerless to interfere.
Perhaps she was only anxious that he should not misunderstand. "George, are you ready?" his host called out. "We're going to take Smith's pastures." "Quite!" Duncombe answered. "Until this evening, Miss Fielding." "You are dining at Runton Place?" she asked quietly. "Yes," he answered. "Will you tell me all about your Andrew Pelham?" She raised her eyes to his and smiled.
Charnock Poynsett has to think of la belle mere." "She has given up the management of all matters of society to me," said Cecil with dignity; "you may reckon on me." "No hope of the Bowaters, of course," said Mrs. Duncombe. "Miss Bowater is coming to stay with us," volunteered Cecil. "To be near that unlucky Life Guardsman manque," said Mrs. Duncombe.
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