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Updated: June 2, 2025
And Francey would be there, dancing in and out He stumbled a little. The hiccoughs were definitely sobs, hard-drawn, shaking him from head to foot. It was his birthday. And at the bottom of the hill, hidden in evening mist, the big dark house waited for him. There was light showing in the dining-room window, so that he knew his father had come home.
Francey, cross-legged and smoking, on the couch which at night unfolded itself into a bed, saw the movement and smiled at him. Her eyes were as steady in their serenity as his were steady with hunger. She did not change colour, so that whatever she understood from that long scrutiny did not trouble her. He leant forward, as though he were afraid of missing some subtle half-tone in her voice. "Mr.
There was no use or purpose in their living. Only sentimentalists like Francey wanted to patch them up and keep them on their feet. People who cluttered up life ought to be cleared out of it. He felt light-headed, yet extraordinarily sure of himself again. He answered Rogers' questions with the old lucidity. And presently he found himself in the corridor, still arguing his theme over.
It seemed that Gertie still lived, defying medical opinion and apparently feeding her starved spirit on the treasures of the Vatican. Howard, who had become a very bad artist and lived on selling copies of the masterpieces to tourists, looked after her. "But they're not married," Francey said. "Just friends." He said humbly: "Well, he's been awfully decent to her."
Then again he justified it, as he had always justified it. He found himself arguing the whole matter out with Francey Wilmot a cool and reasoned exposition such as he had been incapable of at the crisis of their relationship. Nature destroys her. She remained herself.
The innocent building-ground and nefarious plottings against unpopular authority had given place to restaurants and more subtle wickednesses. But still Francey played her queer, elusive role among them. She was of them and yet she stood a little apart, a little on one side. Probably Howard thought himself their real leader. They did not talk to her directly very much, nor she to them.
He wanted terribly to say to her, "It's my birthday, Francey, and they haven't even wished me many happy returns;" but that would have shown her how little he was, and how unhappy. Instead, he began to lunge and parry with an invisible opponent, talking in a loud, fierce voice. "I wish the others would come. I've got a topping plan. Edith goes shopping 'bout six o'clock when it's almost dark.
I'll have gone to-morrow, and I'll try to arrange not to come back till you're through. It will be all right." "Francey, it's such a foolish thing to quarrel about." "It's everything," she said simply. She turned to go. Even then he could have stopped her. He could have said: "Francey, Christine died this morning!" and their sad enmity might have melted in grief and pity.
"You'd you'd better go, Robert. We're both of us out of hand. We'll see each other to-morrow. It will be different then." He went without a word. But on the dark stairs he stood still, leaning back against the wall, his wet face between his hands. He said aloud: "Oh, Francey. Francey, I can't live without you!"
He saw that the sunlight had shrunk to a pale gold finger whose tip rested lingeringly on the windowsill, and he felt tired and cold and work-soiled. He got up and followed her awkwardly, with a sullen face and a childishly beating heart. The kettle was already on the gas, and Francey gazing into an open cupboard that was scarcely smaller than the kitchen itself.
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