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Updated: May 3, 2025
Clara Durrant had left him at a party to talk to an American called Pilchard. And he had come all the way to Greece and left her. They wore evening-dresses, and talked nonsense what damned nonsense and he put out his hand for the Globe Trotter, an international magazine which is supplied free of charge to the proprietors of hotels.
Munch, munch, he heard; then a short step through the grass; then again munch, munch, munch, as they tore the grass short at the roots. In front of him two white butterflies circled higher and higher round the elm tree. "Jacob's off," thought Durrant looking up from his novel.
Durrant has never sent me the hamper of Flowers he promised. "P.S. I post this letter before Noon so as you will receive it this evening: and can get the Newspaper I tell you of: "Eastern Times for Friday last sold at Chapman's." Posh does not remember whether he laid out the three halfpence or not. But he doubts it. "I knowed as that couldn't ha' nothin' ta dew along o' us," says he.
"No, I didn't mean that. It's evidently the other way with Jacob. He is precisely the young man to fall headlong in love and repent it for the rest of his life." "Oh, Mr. Bowley," said Mrs. Durrant, sweeping down upon them in her imperious manner, "you remember Mrs. Adams? Well, that is her niece." And Mr. Bowley, getting up, bowed politely and fetched strawberries.
The rooms are shapely, the ceilings high; over the doorway a rose, or a ram's skull, is carved in the wood. The eighteenth century has its distinction. Even the panels, painted in raspberry-coloured paint, have their distinction. ... "Distinction" Mrs. Durrant said that Jacob Flanders was "distinguished- looking." "Extremely awkward," she said, "but so distinguished-looking."
"Bloody beastly!" he said, scanning the street for lilac or bicycle anything to restore his sense of freedom. "Bloody beastly," he said to Timmy Durrant, summing up his discomfort at the world shown him at lunch-time, a world capable of existing there was no doubt about that but so unnecessary, such a thing to believe in Shaw and Wells and the serious sixpenny weeklies!
"Oh-h-h-h," groaned Jacob, as the boat rocked, and the trees rocked, and the white dresses and the white flannel trousers drew out long and wavering up the bank. "Oh-h-h-h!" He sat up, and felt as if a piece of elastic had snapped in his face. "They're friends of my mother's," said Durrant. "So old Bow took no end of trouble about the boat." And this boat had gone from Falmouth to St.
Bowley are talking dreadful gossip, I know," said Clara. "Life is wicked life is detestable!" cried Rose Shaw. "There's not much to be said for this sort of thing, is there?" said Timothy Durrant to Jacob. "Women like it." "Like what?" said Charlotte Wilding, coming up to them. "Where have you come from?" said Timothy. "Dining somewhere, I suppose." "I don't see why not," said Charlotte.
No, he hadn't any newspapers; didn't know whether Durrant was hanged yet, nor who had won the Thanksgiving game; hadn't heard whether the United States and Spain had gone to fighting; didn't know who Dreyfus was; but O'Brien? Hadn't they heard? O'Brien, why, he was drowned in the White Horse; Sitka Charley the only one of the party who escaped. Joe Ladue?
Then his mouth but surely, of all futile occupations this of cataloguing features is the worst. One word is sufficient. But if one cannot find it? "I like Jacob Flanders," wrote Clara Durrant in her diary. "He is so unworldly. He gives himself no airs, and one can say what one likes to him, though he's frightening because ..." But Mr. Letts allows little space in his shilling diaries.
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