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Updated: May 2, 2025
You must ask my son Jack, gentlemen my son Jack te-he! oh, yes, he knows; he can tell you a thing or two, I warrant you! Yes, gentlemen, he's like all the Dysarts fit for a fight or a frolic! te-he! he's all Dysart, gentlemen my son Jack. But he is a good son to me yes, yes! a good son, a good son! Tell him I said so and good-night." "Nutty," whispered a policeman.
As for Jack Dysart, it is all too sorrowful to think about. How must he feel! Surely, surely he could not have known what he was doing. He must have been desperate to go to Delancy Grandcourt. It was wrong; nothing on earth could have propped up the Algonquin, and why did he let his best friend go down with it? "But it was fine of Delancy to stand by him fine, fine!
"Kathie Dysart, I'll tell your Sunday-school teacher, see if I don't." "Tell her what? you old, old, OLD thing!" Kathie Dysart loved her Sunday-school teacher, and now she was in a rage. She couldn't begin to scowl as fiercely as she felt; her cheeks sunk in, her lips drew down, her nose grew sharp and long in the effort. And, all at once, as the children say, her face "froze" so.
For a while he stood motionless, hands in his trousers' pockets, head lowered; then, as somebody entered the farther door, he turned instinctively and stepped into a private card room, closing the polished mahogany door. The door opened a moment later and Delancy Grandcourt walked in. "Hello," he said briefly. Dysart, by the window, looked around at him without any expression whatever.
Dysart nodded. "If you could make her happy it would square a great many things, Dysart." The other looked up: "You?" "I don't know. Yes, in many ways; in that way at all events if you made her happy." Dysart stepped forward: "Would you be nice to her if I did? No other soul in the world knows except you. Other people would be nice to her. Would you?
It's shoot or suit in these unromantic days, Dysart, otherwise the newspapers laugh at you." Dysart's well-shaped fists relaxed, the chair dropped, but even when he let it go murder danced in his eyes. "Yes," he said, "it's shoot or a suit in these days; you're perfectly right, Mallett. And we'll let it go at that for the present."
At dinner Francis found, with some annoyance, that he was placed between Mrs. Dysart and Miss Porter, at the remote end of the table from Katrine, whom he could see at Nick van Rensselaer's right, showing her dimples and the flash of white teeth and scarlet lips as she told some story of her own.
Our bathing dresses are drying on Miller's lawn. Please do tell me somebody is scandalised. I've done my best to brighten up this house party." Dysart, really discountenanced, but not showing it, lighted a cigarette and asked pleasantly if the water was agreeable. "It's magnificent," said Duane; "it was like diving into a lake of iced Apollinaris.
Dysart, face convulsed with fury, seized his arm in a vicelike grip: "Will you keep your cursed mouth shut!" he breathed. "My father is in the next room. Do you want to kill him?" At the same moment there came a stir from the room beyond, the tap-tap of a cane and shuffling steps across the polished parquet.
"I'm an ass to do it, but I want to tell you." Dysart halted patiently. "It's this," went on Grandcourt: "between you and my mother, I've never had a chance; she makes me out a fool and you have always assumed it to be true." Dysart glanced at him with amused contempt. A heavy flush rose to Grandcourt's cheek-bones. He said slowly: "I want my chance. You had better let me have it when it comes."
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