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Updated: May 11, 2025
The man with the beard, next her, is John Laurens, the philanthropist. That pretty woman, who's just as nice as she looks, is Mrs. Victor Strange. She was Agatha Pendleton Mrs. Grainger's cousin. And the gentleman with the pink face, whom she is entertaining " "Is my husband," said Honora, smiling. "I know something about him." Mr. Farwell laughed.
"No; Mr. Mallard is with Mr. and, Miss Grainger at the 'Queen's. He left here a few minutes ago." "May I show you the way, miss?" said a huge bearded man, who, booted and spurred, took off his hat to her in an awkward manner. "I'm Dick Scott, one of Mr. Grainger's men." "Thank you," replied Sheila, "it is very kind of you," and, escorted by the burly digger, she went out into the street again.
These reflections resulted in another after-dinner conversation to which we are not supposed to listen. He found Jerry Shorter in a receptive mood, and drew him into Cecil Grainger's study, where this latter gentleman, when awake, carried on his lifework of keeping a record of prize winners. "I believe there is something between Mrs. Spence and Hugh Chiltern, after all, Jerry," he said.
"The best man, madam, in all broad London," said I in answer to Mrs. Grainger's somewhat puzzled look, "you could have retained. Fond as he seems, and in fact is, of money what sensible person is not?
There is a story about his taking a battery at Gettysburg which is almost incredible. But he went back to Grenoble after the war, and became the typical public-spirited citizen; built up the mills which his own pioneer grandfather had founded, and all that. He married an aunt of Mrs. Grainger's, one of those delicate, gentle women who never dare to call their soul their own."
Waddington fancied, a little truculent, with his great square face and square-clipped red moustache, and on each side of Colonel Grainger and behind him were the neighbouring gentry and the townspeople of Wyck, the two grocers, the two butchers, the drapers and hotel keeper, and behind them again the servants of the Manor and a crowd of shop assistants; and further and further back, farm labourers and artisans; among these he recognized Ballinger with several of Colonel Grainger's and Hitchin's men.
Grainger, sub-editor of Doc's Magazine, closed his roll-top desk, put on his hat, walked into the hall, punched the "down" button, and waited for the elevator. Grainger's day had been trying. The chief had tried to ruin the magazine a dozen times by going against Grainger's ideas for running it. A lady whose grandfather had fought with McClellan had brought a portfolio of poems in person.
He praised Grainger's Ode on Solitude, in Dodsley's Collection, and repeated, with great energy, the exordium:
How can a man write poetically of serges and druggets? Yet you will hear many people talk to you gravely of that excellent poem, The Fleece. Having talked of Grainger's Sugar-Cane, I mentioned to him Mr.
I couldn't let 'em go with all the rest so I er had 'em brought here, to er to keep them for you ready for the time when you should grow tired of digging, and come back to me, and er oh, dammit! you understand and Grainger's waiting to see you in the library been there hours so dress yourself. In Heaven's name, dress yourself!" he cried, and hurried from the room.
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