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For another person, and evidently a welcome one, had joined that pleasant little party. Standing beside the large and gentle lady, speaking quickly, gaily, his face keen and eager, she beheld Alaric Barking. Lord Fallowfeild, smiling, patted the young man affectionately on the shoulder. And then, with a shudder of pain gnawing right through her, Poppy St.
She was obliged to raise her voice to a point of shrillness, hardly compatible with the dignity of the noble house of Fallowfeild, doublé with all the gold of all the Barkings, for the train was banging over the points and roaring between the platforms of a local junction. Mr.
And for the life of him Lord Fallowfeild could not help beaming upon this handsome prodigal. "Uncommonly highbred looking fellow, Shotover," he said to himself. "Don't wonder women run after him. Uncommonly high bred, and shows very nice feeling too." And then the kindly and simple gentleman drew himself up with a mental jerk, remembering that he was there to curse rather than to bless.
Lord Fallowfeild thrust his hands far down into his trouser pockets and turned sideways in the great, leather-covered chair. "I'm not narrow-minded or prejudiced," he began. "I always have kept on civil terms with those sort of people and always will. Courtesy is an obligation on the part of a gentleman and a Christian. I'd as soon be rude to my tailor as eat with my knife.
But really you forget all about it almost immediately every one does one can see that don't they, Alicia? If you had met Sir Richard everywhere, as we have this season, you would realise how very very soon that is quite forgotten." "Is it, though?" said Lord Fallowfeild somewhat incredulously. His face had returned to a sadly puckered condition.
Since what young male creature who knew anything really worth knowing that was Godfrey's way of putting it at least did not know that Lord Shotover had been a mighty sportsman from his youth up, and upon a certain famous occasion had won the Grand National on his own horse? "Only tea for me, Mrs. Cathcart," Lord Fallowfeild was saying. "Capital thing tea.
"I desired enormously to see you," she continued. "But when you came in I grew shy. It is so with one sometimes." "You should use your influence, Lady Calmady," Mr. Cathcart was saying. "Unquestionably the condition of the workhouse is far from satisfactory. And Fallowfeild is too lenient. That laisser-aller policy of his threatens to land us in serious difficulties.
Decies of the 101st Lancers a friend of Guy Quayle, home on leave from India, whence he brought news of his fellow-subaltern actually drove up to the door. When, pushed thereto by an accusing conscience, he did at last come in, Lord Fallowfeild easily persuaded himself that there really was not time before dinner for the momentous conversation.
The place is insanitary, and the food is unnecessarily poor. I am not an advocate for extravagance, but I cannot bear to see discomfort which might be avoided. Fallowfeild is the most kind-hearted of men, but he has a fatal habit of believing what people tell him. And those workhouse officials have got round him. The whole matter ought to be subjected to the strictest investigation."
Because the affair has not gone very far yet and it might be put a stop to at least I hope and think it might without making darling Kathleen too dreadfully unhappy. You do believe he really is good?" Lord Fallowfeild leaned forward and rubbed a hardly perceptible atom of fluff off his left trouser leg just above the ankle.
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