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Updated: May 25, 2025
Just at that moment the door was opened by a gentleman entering from the street, and Farquaharson was immensely diverted at the sudden hush in which that particular vein of conversation died. It was an easy guess that this was Eben Tollman himself. The newcomer bore himself with a cold reserve of conscious superiority.
If he lacked the fire and buoyancy which had made association with Stuart Farquaharson a thing of light and color and sparkle, so did her whole life lack that fire in these gray days. So did she herself lack it, she told herself wistfully. At all events he came nearer being fides Achates than any one else.
"As for instance that there's less of the fortuitous in this meeting than appears upon the surface." "Then you knew I was on the sandbar?" Stuart Farquaharson shook his head. "I didn't even know that you were at Chatham. I just got here this morning driving through to Provincetown. But I did know that you were on Cape Cod, and that is why I'm on Cape Cod."
Below the surface of consciousness, there is a second stream of thought as unrecognized as a dream, but none the less potent." The speaker paused and Farquaharson waited in silence for him to continue. "The broader a man's habit of thought," went on the physician slowly, "the fewer impulses he is called upon to repress because he is frank.
At first he had written down, with more pleasure than cynicism, the complimentary phrases which had tickled his vanity; that had soon palled, and the compliments were monotonously framed; after two months he only recorded such triumphs as when old Farquaharson invited him to call. "I would give much to have written your play; I would have given anything to write it at your age."
"What is our first port of call, and when do we reach it?" demanded Farquaharson. "Brindisi. To-morrow." "From Brindisi what are the most immediate connections respectively for the States and for India." The officer replied with a directness that rose superior to personal curiosity. "For the States the quickest course is to leave this vessel at Gibraltar.
He explained that he had missed his train, and that when he telephoned to Boston, he learned that the matter could after all be deferred. A man from Chicago had also failed to arrive. "But the train has been in for hours," Farquaharson reminded him with a puzzled tinge in his voice. "It can't have taken you this long to drive from Tanner." "No, I didn't drive.
The lines were these: "'The Longest Way Round, a comedy in three acts, by Stuart Farquaharson, will have its première at the Garrick Theater on Monday evening. After a road engagement the piece will be presented to Broadway early in the fall. The cast includes " But Eben had not troubled about the cast.
Twenty minutes later Stuart Farquaharson swung himself to the driver's seat of his low-hung roadster, and threw on the switch, while Billy Stirling and the others stood at the curb, waving farewells and finding nothing suitable to say.
Here's mail for you." Absently Stuart took the envelope and when the scene ended made his way to the light of the open stage door to investigate its contents. There, seeking asylum from the greater heat of the wings he came upon the ingenue, indulging in the luxury of exhausted tears. Farquaharson glanced at the note carelessly at first and the signature momentarily baffled him.
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