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Updated: June 19, 2025
Ferrall sat, nibbling mint-paste, very serious over one of those books that "everybody was reading." "How far have you read?" inquired Sylvia without interest, turning over a new letter to cut with her paper-knife.
Ferrall, his legs swinging busily, thought again; then: "Who was the girl, Stephen?" "I don't think the papers mentioned her name," said Siward gravely. "Oh I beg your pardon; I thought she was some notorious actress everybody said so. Who were those callow fools who put you up to it? Never mind if you don't care to tell.
"Ferrall, Belwether, and Siward are in it up to their necks; and if Quarrier is really the god in the machine, and if he really is doing stunts with Amalgamated Electric, and is also mixing feet with the Inter-County crowd, why, he is virtually paralleling his own road; and why, in the name of common sense, is he doing that? He'll kill it; that's what he'll do."
As for Grace Ferrall, she lost no time in tears, but took Agatha publicly to her bosom, turned furiously on Quarrier in private, and for the first time in her life permitted herself the luxury of telling him exactly what she thought of him. "You had your chance," she said; "but you are all surface! There's nothing to you but soft beard and manicuring, and the reticence of stupidity!
Would you mate what she inherits from her mother and her mother's mother, with what is that poor boy's heritage from the Siwards?" "After all," observed Ferrall dryly, "we're not in the angel-breeding business." "We ought to be. Every decent person ought to be. If they were, inherited vice would be as rare in this country as smallpox!" "People don't inherit smallpox, dear." "Never mind!
Sylvia had taken a hesitating step toward them, but halted, turning irresolutely; and suddenly over her crept a sensation of isolation something of that feeling which had roused her at midnight from her bed and driven her to Grace Ferrall for a refuge from she knew not what. The rustle of her silken dinner gown was scarcely perceptible as she turned.
Ferrall, busily energetic, and in high spirits, greeted them gaily, pointing out the red disc bearing their number, seven, where it stood out distinctly above the distant scrub of the foreland. "You two are certainly up against it!" he said, grinning. "There's only one rougher line, and you're in for thorns and water and a scramble across the back-bone of the divide!"
He would have time enough to read the letter when he went to bed; he did not just now feel exactly like skimming through the fond, foolish sermon which he knew had been preached at him through his mother's favourite missionary, Grace Ferrall.
And at last a rosy bar of light fell across the wall, and the warm shadows faded from corner and curtain; and, turning on the pillow, her face nestled in her hair, she fell asleep. Nothing of this had Mrs. Ferrall told her husband.
The obstinate downward trend of the brows, the narrowing blue gaze signalled mutiny to the woman who knew her so well. "What is so wrong with Mr. Siward?" she asked. "Nothing. There was an affair " "This spring in town. I know it. Is that all?" "Yes for the present," replied Grace Ferrall uncomfortably; then: "For goodness' sake, Sylvia, don't cross examine me that way!
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