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Updated: June 24, 2025
Clinch, who, from the other side of the fireplace, agreed with a glance at the clock, that it was the hour for bores. "Bores!" cried Mrs. Fetherel impatiently. "If I shuddered at them, I should have a chronic ague!" She leaned forward and laid a sparkling finger on her cousin's shabby black knee. "I mean the newspaper clippings," she whispered. Mrs. Clinch returned a glance of intelligence.
Fetherel, and one of the traits he most valued in her was the possession of a butler who knew how to announce a bishop. Mrs. Even this indiscretion the Bishop might, however, have condoned, had his niece thought fit to turn to him for support and advice at the painful juncture of her history when, in her own words, it became necessary for her to invite Mr. Clinch to look out for another situation.
Even Hynes's gaze strayed to it for a moment, but soon returned to his neighbor's face; and then he perceived that Mrs. Fetherel, alone of all the persons present, was not looking at the window. Her eyes were fixed in an indignant stare on the Bishop; a flush of anger burned becomingly under her veil, and her hands nervously crumpled the beautifully printed program of the ceremony.
A religious light filled the chantry of Ossining Cathedral, filtering through the linen curtain which veiled the central window, and mingling with the blaze of tapers on the richly adorned altar. In this devout atmosphere, agreeably laden with the incense-like aroma of Easter lilies and forced lilacs, Mrs. Fetherel knelt with a sense of luxurious satisfaction.
"Why, you've just said it yourself!" her cousin suddenly reproached her. "Said what?" "That you weren't so awfully shocked " "I? Oh, well you see, you'd keyed me up to such a pitch that it wasn't quite as bad as I expected " Mrs. Fetherel lifted a smile steeled for the worst. "Why not say at once," she suggested, "that it's a distinctly pretty story?" "They haven't said that?"
Fetherel is, we believe, a new hand at fiction, and her work reveals frequent traces of inexperience; but these are more than atoned for by her pure, fresh view of life and her altogether unfashionable regard for the reader's moral susceptibilities.
Fetherel threw out her answer with the desperate gesture of a woman who lays bare the traces of a marital fist. "The tone of being proud of my book." The measure of Mrs. Clinch's enjoyment overflowed in laughter. "Oh, you may laugh," Mrs. Fetherel insisted, "but it's no joke to me.
Beside her sat Archer Hynes, who had remembered that there was to be a church scene in his next novel, and that his impressions of the devotional environment needed refreshing. Mrs. Fetherel was very happy.
It sticks especially on white clothes." Mrs. Fetherel lifted an undaunted brow. "I'm not afraid," she proclaimed; and at the same instant she dropped her tea-spoon with a clatter and shrank back into her seat. "There's the bell," she exclaimed, "and I know it's the Bishop!" It was in fact the Bishop of Ossining, who, impressively announced by Mrs.
Fetherel, who was not in the habit of reading aloud, paused with a gasp, and the Bishop glanced sharply at his niece, who kept her gaze fixed on the tea-cup she had not yet succeeded in transferring to his hand. "'Of the sewer," her husband resumed; "'but his wonder is proportionately great when he lights on a novel as sweetly inoffensive as Paula Fetherel's "Fast and Loose." Mrs.
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