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Updated: June 19, 2025
"Dearest," said Ferrall, "my head is a whirl and my wits are spinning like five toy tops.
I think I should have done it yet, but but Marion " Suddenly she bent forward, resting her face in her hands; and between the fingers a bright drop ran, glimmered, and fell. "O Lord!" breathed Mrs. Ferrall, and sank back, nerveless, into her own corner of the rocking brougham.
And when Ferrall, finishing his usual batch of business letters, arrived to cut in if needed, Siward dropped his cards with a shudder, and rose so utterly unnerved that Captain Voucher, noticing his drawn face, asked him if he were not ill.
Once Ferrall loaded two motor cars with pioneers for a day beyond his own boundaries; and one day was spent ingloriously with the beagles; but otherwise the Shotover estate proved more than sufficient for good bags or target practice, as the skill of the sportsmen developed. Leroy Mortimer had given up shooting and established himself as a haunter of cushions in sunny corners.
"This salt air keeps one thirsty," he observed to Ferrall; then something in his host's expression arrested the glass at his lips. He had already been using the decanter a good deal; except Mortimer, nobody was doing that sort of thing as freely as he. He set his glass on the table thoughtfully; a tinge of colour had crept into his lean checks.
She looked at him with unblushing deliberation. "You wrote every day. If it was to a woman, I wanted to know. And I told Grace Ferrall that it worried me. And then Grace told me. Is there any other confession of my own pettiness that I can make to you." "Did you really care to whom I was writing?" he asked slowly. "Care? I it worried me. Was it not a pitifully common impulse?
I think my uncle Major Belwether chose you as his august mouthpiece for that little sermon on the dangers of heredity the danger of being ignorant concerning what women of my race had done before I came into the world they found so amusing." "I told you several things," returned Mrs. Ferrall composedly. "Your uncle thought it best for you to know." "Yes.
Siward," she said, pausing at the foot of the staircase. So he took his congé, leaving her standing there with Quarrier, and mounted to his room. In the corridor he passed Ferrall, who had finished his business correspondence and was returning to the card-room. "Here's a letter that Grace wants you to see," he said. "Read it before you turn in, Stephen."
But, plan as he would, he had never been able to increase that income through confidential gossip with men like Quarrier or Belwether, or even Ferrall. What information his pretty wife might have extracted he did not know; her income had never visibly increased above the vanishing point, although, like himself, she denied herself nothing.
He said no more; his pretty wife astride her thoroughbred sat silent, grey eyes fixed on the distant figures of Sylvia Landis and Siward, now shoulder deep in the reeds. "Was it very bad last night?" she asked in a low voice. Ferrall shrugged. "He was not offensive; he walked steadily enough up-stairs. When I went into his room he lay on the bed as if he'd been struck by lightning.
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