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Updated: April 30, 2025
Flamby achieved composure, and hammer in hand she went to admit her visitors. One swift glance she ventured, and in Paul's eyes she read that which none could have deduced from his manner. The shameful phantom which had pursued her so long had not been illusory; the photographs taken by Sir Jacques had survived him. Paul had seen them.
Now, Flamby extending one motionless hand, the gaudily-striped insect alighted upon her finger and began busily to march from thence to the rosy tip of the next, and so on until it reached Flamby's little curved thumb.
"Flamby," he said earnestly, "one day you will be a great artist." She looked into his eyes, but only for a moment, turned and fled. There were a hundred things he had wanted to say to her, a hundred questions he had wanted to ask. But off she ran along the margin of the wood, and where a giant elm stood, a forest outpost at a salient, paused and waved her hand to him.
It is not enough to know yourself blameless, Flamby. Worldly folks are grossly suspicious, especially of a pretty girl, and believe me, life is easier and sweeter without misunderstanding." "Someone has been telling you tales about me," said Flamby, an ominous scarlet enflaming her cheeks. Paul laughed, bending further forward and seeking to draw Flamby's hands out from their silken hiding-place.
Flamby nodded her head. She did not seem to care that her hair was in disorder. "He knows that I hate James, though," she added. "I don't understand at all. Whatever can have induced you to trust yourself in that ruffian's studio?" "I've been before. It was my fault. I made him think he was doing fine." "Doing fine?" "He is so infernally conceited. I wanted to let him down. But he got desperate.
He took her to lunch once or twice to Regali's, which created a coterie of female enemies, but Flamby regarded all women in a more charitable manner since her meeting with Mrs. Chumley, and some of her enemies afterwards became her friends, for she bore them no malice, but sought them out and did her utmost to understand them.
Unconsciously, he found himself speaking of the late Michael Duveen as of one belonging to his own station in life, nor did the wild appearance and sometimes uncouth language of Flamby serve wholly to disguise the blue streak in her blood. "When he was sober," she replied, and suddenly bursting into gay laughter she snatched the drawing and turned away, waving her hand to Paul. "Goodbye, Mr.
Loneliness must be very terrible, and there is really no such thing as a girl friend after school days, is there? Except for very ugly girls or very daft ones." "I am sure you would be a staunch friend to anyone, dear." "Yes; but they don't know it, you see. Naturally they judge me by themselves," said Flamby wistfully. "I used to hate being a woman before I met you, Mrs.
And things that convinced other men would not convince a true initiate. So I am worried about Paul, because if he is not a true initiate, where did he learn the things that are in The Gates?" Don's face was very grave. "You have been studying strange books, Flamby. What have you been reading?" "Heaps of things." Flamby blushed. "I managed to get a Reader's ticket for the British Museum.
At his first word of greeting, Flamby read his secret and her soul rose up in arms; by the time that he took his departure she doubted her woman's intuition and wondered. Such was the magic of the silver voice, the Christian humility expressed in the bearing of that black figure.
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