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Updated: June 14, 2025
"Not to me," said Marian Fancourt with her clear eyes. "That wouldn't be right, would it?" she asked gravely. "Not particularly; so I'm glad he doesn't mention her to you. To praise her might bore you, and he has no business to do anything else. Yet he knows you better than me." "Ah but he respects you!" the girl cried as with envy. Her visitor stared a moment, then broke into a laugh.
"Because they were health-resorts where my poor mother was dying." "Your poor mother?" she was all sweet wonder. "We went from place to place to help her to get better. But she never did. "And she isn't better?" Miss Fancourt went on. "She died a year ago." "Really? like mine! Only that's years since. Some day you must tell me about your mother," she added.
"Believing that you did not desire to hold the baronetcy, I would gladly have resigned my future right to it in favour of Harry," said Headland. "As, however, you gave me leave to consult any friend in whom I had confidence, I at once went to my old captain, Admiral Fancourt, who, of all people, as my uncle's brother-in-law, was the most capable of giving me advice.
"Thank you very much," she said mechanically, trying to collect her thoughts. "Will your ladyship honour me with the CONTREDANSE until your coach is ready?" asked Lord Fancourt. "No, I thank you, my lord, but and you will forgive me I really am too tired, and the heat in the ball-room has become oppressive." "The conservatory is deliciously cool; let me take you there, and then get you something.
She scarcely heard what he said, and suddenly startled him by asking abruptly, "Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the dining-room just now besides Sir Percy Blakeney?" "Only the agent of the French government, M. Chauvelin, equally fast asleep in another corner," he said. "Why does your ladyship ask?" "I know not . . . I . . . Did you notice the time when you were there?"
He didn't even observe what he was served with, and he spent the evening in the library of the establishment, pretending to read an article in an American magazine. He failed to discover what it was about; it appeared in a dim way to be about Marian Fancourt. Quite late in the week she wrote to him that she was not to go into the country it had only just been settled.
Miss Fancourt sat down with her new acquaintance on a flowered sofa, the cushions of which, very numerous, were tight ancient cubes of many sizes, and presently said: "I'm so glad to have a chance to thank you." "To thank me ?" He had to wonder. "I liked your book so much. I think it splendid."
If it was a question of introductions Miss Fancourt apparently as yet unmarried was far away, while the wife of his illustrious confrere was almost between them. This lady struck Paul Overt as altogether pretty, with a surprising juvenility and a high smartness of aspect, something that he could scarcely have said why served for mystification. St.
Cela s'est passe comme ca? and I've been sitting here with you all this time and never apprehended it and never thanked you!" "Thank Miss Fancourt it was she who wound me up. She has made me feel as if I had read your novel." "She's an angel from heaven!" Paul declared. "She is indeed. I've never seen any one like her.
Pretty women were a clear need to this genius, and for the hour it was Miss Fancourt who supplied the want. If Overt had promised himself a closer view the occasion was now of the best, and it brought consequences felt by the young man as important. He saw more in St. George's face, which he liked the better for its not having told its whole story in the first three minutes.
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