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Updated: May 19, 2025
As a sportsman, he had no intention of shirking the bitterness of defeat. "Mrs. Grainger and Mrs. Shorter," he remarked, "appear to be enjoying themselves." Honora felt her face grow hot as the merriment at the corner table rose to a height it had not heretofore attained. And she did not dare to look again. Mrs. Holt was blissfully oblivious to her surroundings.
"Hugh has such a faculty," complained Mr. Grainger, "of turning up at the wrong moment!" Dinner was announced. She took Chiltern's arm, and they fell into file behind a lady in yellow, with a long train, who looked at her rather hard. It was Mrs. Freddy Maitland. Her glance shifted to Chiltern, and it seemed to Honora that she started a little.
"'Something wrong out there, Grainger? said the captain. "'Looks to me to be all in the wind with her, I answered. "'Make out any colour? said the captain. "'Nothing as yet, said I. "'Shift your helm by a spoke or two, said he. 'Meanwhile, I'll go to breakfast. "He was not long below. By the time he returned we had risen the distant vessel to the line of her rail.
Honora's innocence was not too great to enable her to read between the lines of this biography which Reginald Farwell had related with such praiseworthy delicacy. It was a biography, she well knew, that, like a score of others, had been guarded as jealously as possible within the circle on the borders of which she now found herself. Mrs. Grainger with her charities, Mrs.
Grainger is very rich," said the clergyman's wife meditatively. "Very," said her friend, who knew that Mrs. "It would be a pity for him to be involved with such a a forward-looking young person," she said charitably. But for the first quarter of an hour she had no opportunity of satisfying her curiosity, for Sheila was quite hungry enough not to waste too much time in conversation.
He complied, and joined in wedlock Violet Dalston and Henry Grainger. The bride was the lady now pointed out to him in court; the bridegroom he had discovered, about two years ago, to be no other than the late Sir Harry Compton, baronet. The initials Z.Z. were his, and written by him.
Carson was pressing him as to his relations with the boy Grainger, who had been employed in Lord Alfred Douglas' rooms in Oxford. "Did you ever kiss him?" he asked. Oscar answered carelessly, "Oh, dear, no. He was a peculiarly plain boy. He was, unfortunately, extremely ugly. I pitied him for it." "Was that the reason why you did not kiss him?" "Oh, Mr. Carson, you are pertinently insolent."
He would like to see Grainger boycotted by the whole county. The door opened. He strode forward and found himself holding out a sudden, fervid hand to a lady who was not Mrs. Levitt. He drew up, turning his gesture into a bow, rather unnecessarily ceremonious; but he could not annihilate instantaneously all that fervour. "I am Mrs. Levitt's sister, Mrs. Rickards. Mr. Waddington, is it not?
Even under less kindly conditions, the art has not been wholly dormant. Special circumstances or special men have called it into brief activity. The streets designed by Wood at Bath about 1735, by Craig at Edinburgh about 1770, by Grainger at Newcastle about 1835, show what individual genius could do at favourable moments.
She caught herself up with a start after one of these silences to realize that Mr. Grainger was making unwonted and indeed pathetic exertions to entertain her, and it needed no feminine eye to perceive that he was thoroughly uncomfortable. She had, unconsciously and in thinking of Peter, rather overdone the note of rebuke of his visit. And Honora was, above all else, an artist.
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