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Updated: May 1, 2025
"I won't kiss you!" she cried. "Let me go!" Orlando James looked into her face, now flushed again and found the lure of Flamby's lips to be one beyond his powers of rejection. "Don't get wild, kiddie," he said softly. "You need not be cruel." "Let me go," repeated Flamby in a low voice. He held her closer and his face almost touched hers. Whereupon the storm burst.
She was so engaged when suddenly up went the long ears, and uttering a faint cry resembling an infant's whimper the hare sprang from her lap into the sea of bluebells and instantly disappeared. A harsh grip fastened upon Flamby's shoulder.
Of such-like matters were Flamby's thoughts as she sat squeezed up into the smallest possible compass upon her settee, arms embracing knees; and, as was so often the case, they led her back to Paul Mario. It was wonderful how all paths seemed to lead to Paul Mario. She sighed, reaching down for the newspaper which had slipped to the floor. As her fingers touched it, the door-bell rang.
Flamby's eyes were so misty that she averted her face. "Oh, Don," she said unsteadily, "and I wrote to you only three days ago and thought you were safe." Don unbuttoned the left breast-pocket of his tunic and flourished a letter triumphantly. "Young Conroy has been forwarding all my mail," he explained, "and I have addressed my letters from nowhere in particular and sent them to him to be posted!
"That is a compliment, Flamby." "But isn't it horrible? Women are nasty. I wish I were a man." Don laughed loudly, squeezing Flamby's hand more firmly under his arm. "You would have made a deuce of a boy," he said. "I wonder if we should have been friends." "I don't think so," replied Flamby pensively. "Eh!" cried Don, turning to her "why not?"
The porter whom he had hailed, a morbid spirit who might suitably have posed for Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, approached regretfully. "'Ow many?" he inquired. "Got the ticket?" He did not disguise his hopes that it might prove to be lost, but they were shattered when the luggage ticket was produced from Flamby's black glove, and in due course the antique cabin-trunk made its appearance.
"No man ever saw a blue lamb," she said "while he was sober!" The words shed a sidelight upon the domestic habits of the late Sergeant Duveen, as Paul did not fail to note; and in the masculinity of Flamby's jesting he glimpsed something of the closeness of the intimacy which had existed between father and daughter.
Busts and plaster casts, canvas-stretchers, easels, stools and stacks of sketches littered the first, or "antique" room, and they were all mantled in dust. There was no one in the "life" room at the time of Flamby's visit, except an old Italian, who was a model, but who looked like an organ-grinder.
One morning as she stepped out like Psyche from her bath, and stood for a moment where an ardent sunbeam entering slyly through the bower above wrapped her in golden embrace, upon that sylvan mystery intruded a sound which blanched the roses on Flamby's cheeks and seemed to turn her body to marble.
The drinking-bouts grew less frequent and only once again did Duveen offer violence to his wife. It was on the occasion of a house-party at Hatton Towers, and a racy young French commercial man who was one of Sir Jacques' guests fell to the lure of Flamby's ever increasing charms.
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