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Updated: May 19, 2025
You have heard that he has been foolish, and because he's so young, so likable, every instinct, every impulse in you is aroused to to be nice to him " "And if that were " "There is no harm, dear " Mrs. Ferrall hesitated, her grey eyes softening to a graver revery. Then looking up: "It's rather pathetic," she said in a low voice. "Kemp thinks he's foredoomed like all the Siwards.
You laugh? But you are wrong; she is in love with him now as much as she ever can be with anybody." "You mean " "Yes I do. Hadn't you suspected it?" And as Sylvia had suspected it she remained silent. "If any woman in this world could keep him to the mark, she could," continued Mrs. Ferrall. "He's a perfect fool not to see how she cares for him." Sylvia said: "He is indeed."
She said something to Grace Ferrall about the mist promising good point-shooting in the morning, took the order book from a servant, jotted down her request to be called an hour before sunrise, filled in the gun-room records with her score the species and number bagged, and the number of shells used and accepting the tea offered, drew out a tiny cigarette-case of sweet-bay wood heavily crusted with rose-gold.
Grace Ferrall pointed one out to me last winter, near Palm Beach a slender bird, part black, part snowy white, with long, pointed, delicate wings like an enormous swallow; and all day, all night, it floats and soars and drifts in the upper air, never resting, never alighting except during its brief nesting season. Think of the exquisite bliss of drifting one's life through in mid-air to sleep, balanced on light wings, upborne by invisible currents flowing under the stars to sail dreamily through the long sunshine, to float under the moon! And at last, I suppose, when its time has come, down it whirls out of the sky, stone dead! There is something thrilling in such a death something magnificent. And in the exquisitely spiritual honeymoon, vague as the shadow of a rainbow, is the very essence and aroma of that impalpable Paradise we women prophesy in dreams! More sentiment!
"I'll come too," began Belwether, who had been listening, loose-mouthed and intent; "we're all in it Howard, Kemp Ferrall, and I " "And Stephen Siward," observed Plank, so quietly that Quarrier never even raised his eyes to read the stolid face opposite. Presently he said: "Do you know anybody who can deliver you any considerable block of Amalgamated Electric at the market figures?"
"I don't think about it at all," observed Sylvia, opening another letter impatiently. "You're probably not very literary," said Grace mischievously. "Not in that way, I suppose." Mrs. Ferrall took another bonbon: "Did you see 'Mrs. Lane's Experiment'?" "I did," said Sylvia, looking up, the pink creeping into her cheeks. "You thought it very strong, I suppose?" asked Grace innocently.
Ferrall is Quarrier's cousin; and there's Belwether in it, and Quarrier is engaged to marry Sylvia Landis, who is Belwether's niece. It's a scrap with Harrington's crowd, and the wheels inside of wheels are like Chinese boxes. Who knows what it means? Only it's plain that Amalgamated is safe, if Quarrier wants it to be. And unless he does he's crazy."
"Aw, yis, Sorr; but the gintlemen for Shotover House does ginerally allways coom by Black Fells, Sorr " "Oh, Lord!" said the young man, "I remember now. I should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing; Mr. Ferrall wrote me!" Then, amused: "I suppose you have only a baggage-wagon here?" "No, Sorr a phayton" he hesitated. "Well? Isn't a phaeton all right?"
Suddenly, through the confused blur of foam and spray, the big, glistening ball shot aloft and remained. "Blue! Blue!" exclaimed Grace Ferrall, clapping her hands; and a little whirlwind of cries and hand clapping echoed from the gallery as the breathless swimmers came climbing out of the pool, with scarcely wind enough left for a word or strength for a gesture toward the laughing crowd above.
"Rotten," said Mortimer thickly; "Ferrall, you're all calf and biceps, and it's well enough for you to go floundering into bogs " "Where do you expect to find native woodcock?" demanded Ferrall, laughing. "On the table hereafter," growled Mortimer. "Oh, go and pot Beverly Plank's tame pheasants," retorted Ferrall amiably; "Captain Voucher had a blank day, but he isn't kicking."
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