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Updated: September 19, 2025
At his own door he turned, listening to the movement and whispering. Ferrall, in dressing-gown and slippers, stepped into the corridor; below, the chains were rattling as the wicket swung open. There was a brief parley at the door, sounds of retreating steps on the gravel outside, sounds of approaching steps on the stairway. "What's that? A telegram?" said Ferrall sharply.
Ferrall, gesticulating vigorously, resumed his preprandial dog story to Captain Voucher; Belwether buttonholed Alderdene and bored him with an interminably facetious tale until that nobleman, threatened with maxillary dislocation, fairly wrenched himself loose and came over to Siward, squinting furiously.
Yes, the long days were filled with such moments for him. But afield the desire faded; and even during the day, indoors, he shrugged desire aside. It was night that he dreaded the long hours, lying there tense, stark-eyed, sickened with desire. As for Sylvia, she and Grace Ferrall had taken to motoring, driving away into the interior or taking long flights north and south along the coast.
"Good God!" whispered Ferrall; "is it bad?" And Siward's glazed eyes stared and stared at the scrawled and inky message: "YOUR MOTHER IS VERY ILL. COME AT ONCE." The signature was the name of their family physician, Grisby.
Breakfast at Shotover, except for the luxurious sluggards to whom trays were sent, was served in the English fashion any other method or compromise being impossible. Ferrall, reasonable in most things, detested customs exotic, and usually had an Englishman or two about the house to tell them so, being unable to jeer in any language except his own.
"You see," she said gaily, "you cannot escape me. There is no use in looking wildly at Agatha Caithness" he wasn't "or pretending you're pleased," slipping her rounded, bare arm through the arm he offered. "You can't guess what I've done to-night nobody can guess except Grace Ferrall and one other person.
Perhaps it had been the lack of interest in the people at Shotover, perhaps a mental review of her ancestors' capricious records perhaps a characteristic impulse that had directed a telegram to Quarrier after a midnight confab with Grace Ferrall. However it may have been, she had summoned him.
"I like her, of course," he replied pleasantly. Grace Ferrall stood thinking a moment: "That sketch you made proved a great success, didn't it?" And she laughed under her breath. "Did it? I thought Mr. Quarrier seemed annoyed " "Really? What a muff that cousin of mine is.
"May I play?" asked Sylvia sweetly. "Please," growled Plank. So Sylvia serenely played from the "top of nothing," and Grace Ferrall whisked a wonderful dummy across the green; and Plank's thick under lip began to protrude, and he lowered his heavy head like a bull at bay.
Some day she's going to love somebody. And it isn't likely to be Howard. And, oh, Kemp! I do grow so tired of that sort of thing. Do you suppose anybody will ever make decency a fashion?" "You're doing your best," said Ferrall, laughing at his wife's pretty, boyish face turned back toward him over her shoulder; "you're presenting your cousin and his millions to a girl who can dress the part "
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