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Updated: June 19, 2025
The double treachery of Quarrier was now perfectly apparent to Plank. Siward, true to his word, held his stock in the face of ruin. Kemp Ferrall, furious with the major, and beginning to suspect Quarrier, came to Plank for consultation. Then the defence formed under Plank.
"Will you take me home with you, Kemp, when you take Grace?" she asked. "Of course. I don't know where Grace is. Are you in a hurry to go? It's only four o'clock." They were at the entrance to the supper-room. Plank drew up a chair for her, and she sank down, dropping her elbows on the small table, and resting her face between her fingers. "Pegged out, Sylvia?" exclaimed Ferrall incredulously.
Siward spoke pleasantly to them all. Vendenning whom he did not know, and finally his hostess Grace Ferrall with her piquant, almost boyish, freckled face and sweet frank eyes and the figure of an adolescent. She gave Siward one pretty sun-browned hand and laid the other above his, holding it a moment in her light clasp. "Stephen!
Ferrall, closing her book again, but keeping the place with her finger; "and that's why I'm so curious about all these depraved people. I can't understand why writers have not found out that we women are instinctively innocent, even after we are obliged to make our morality a profession and our innocence an art.
"In other words," said Mrs. Ferrall slowly, "you don't think Mr. Siward is getting what is known as a square deal?" "No, I don't. Major Belwether has already hinted no, not even that but has somehow managed to dampen my pleasure in Mr. Siward." Mrs. Ferrall considered the girl beside her now very lovely and flushed in her suppressed excitement.
No, even the certitude of your contempt, some day, is powerless to halt me now. I could not love; I am utterly incapable of loving you enough to balance the sacrifice. And that is final." Grace Ferrall came into the room and found a duel of silence in progress under the dull fire-glow tinting the ceiling.
Ferrall, withdrawing her finger from the pages and plumping the closed book down on her knee. "You'd better tell me, Sylvia; you might just as well tell me now as later when my persistence has vexed us both. Now, what has happened?" "I have been imprudent," said Sylvia, in a low voice. "You mean," Mrs. Ferrall looked at her keenly "that he has been here?" "No.
Somewhere in the vicinity Grace Ferrall had discovered a woman who supported dozens of relatives by painting that sort of thing for the summer residents at Vermillion Point down the coast. So being charitable she left an order, and being thrifty, insisted on using the cards, spite of her husband's gibes.
"You don't think you could endure him for an hour or two a day, Sylvia?" "It is not that," said the girl almost sullenly. "But " "I'm afraid of myself call it inherited mischief if you like! If I let a man do to me what Mr. Siward did when I was only engaged to Howard, what might I do " "You are not that sort!" said Mrs. Ferrall bluntly. "Don't be exotic, Sylvia."
Meanwhile Dawson, dog-whip at salute, stood knee deep among his restless setters, explaining the ceremony with which Mr. Ferrall ushered in the opening of each shooting season: "It's our own idee, Miss Landis," he said proudly; "onc't a season Mr. Ferrall and his guests likes it for a mixed bag.
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