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Updated: May 17, 2025
George Benham was a grave young man whose spectacles gave him the look of a mournful owl. He seemed to have something on his mind besides the artistically straggling mop of black hair which swept down over his brow. He sighed wearily, and ordered fish-pie. "I thought I saw you come through the lobby just now," he said. "Oh, was that you on the settee, talking to Miss Silverton?"
But the little man was dealing strenuously with a breaded cutlet, while the stout boy, grimly silent, surrounded fish-pie in the forthright manner of a starving python. As for the elder woman, she seemed to be wrestling with unpleasant thoughts, beyond speech.
Why did she administer the raspberry, old friend?" Mr. Benham helped himself to fish-pie, and spoke dully through the steam. "Well, what happened was this. Knowing her as intimately as you do " "I DON'T know her!" "Well, anyway, it was like this. As you know, she has a dog " "I didn't know she had a dog," protested Archie.
"If this argy-bargying about votes for women makes you turn up your nose at bonny flowers that a decent fellow sends you I'm sorry for you it's just tempting Providence to scorn good mercies like this. I'll away and take the fish-pie out of the oven." It was strange that as soon as her mother had left the room she began to feel differently about the roses.
She cast aside her mantle of gloom long enough to say "Yes," then wrapped it round her again. The little man, who had apparently been waiting for her vote before giving his own, said that the sooner he was on board a New York-bound boat the better he would be pleased. The stout boy said nothing. He had finished his fish-pie, and was now attacking jam roll with a sort of morose resolution.
It seemed to him that the world was in conspiracy to link him with this woman. "Well, she has a dog. A beastly great whacking brute of a bulldog. And she brings it to rehearsal." Mr. Benham's eyes filled with tears, as in his emotion he swallowed a mouthful of fish-pie some eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit hotter than it looked.
"Mother, dear," she said, for Mrs. Melville had come back with the fish-pie, and was bidding her with an offended briskness to sit forward and eat her meal while it was hot, "they're the loveliest things. I can't think what for I was so cross." "Neither can I. There's so little bonny comes our way that I do think we might be grateful when we get a treat." "I'm sorry.
"Nonsense! They're your flowers, lassie. But do you not think it would do if we brought in the two candles and turned out the gas? It'll be a bit dark, but it isn't as if there were many bones in the fish-pie." And that is what they did.
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