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Updated: May 19, 2025
"I haven't done anything for you, Miss Guion. I've said so a good many times. It wouldn't be right for me to take payment for what you don't owe me. Besides, there's nothing I want." "That is to say," she returned, coldly, "you prefer the rôle of benefactor. You refuse to accept the little I might be able to do.
The first tears since the beginning of her trials came to Olivia Guion, as, with arms clasped round her aunt and forehead pressed into the little old lady's furs, she sat beside her on a packing-case in the hail. She cried then as she never knew before she was capable of crying.
He withdrew toward the room where Olivia was standing between the portières of the doorway. Davenant yielded, partly because of his ignorance of the small arts of graceful refusal, but more because of his curiosity concerning the man Olivia Guion was to marry. He had some interest, too, in observing one who was chosen where he himself had been rejected.
It's for you to decide. Only, I'm sorry. Good-by!" He held out his hand, which Guion, who was now leaning forward, toying with the pens and pencils on the desk, affected not to see. A certain lack of ease that often came over Davenant at moments of leave-taking or greeting kept him on the spot. "I hoped," he stammered, "that I might have been of some use to you, and that Miss Guion "
Two or three wedding gifts having arrived from various quarters of the world, it was natural that Miss Guion should want to show them confidentially to her dear friend and distant relative, Drusilla Fane. Mrs. Fane had every right to this privileged inspection, since she had not only timed her yearly visit to her parents, Mr. and Mrs.
On Sunday morning, the 8th of July, 1584, the Prince of Orange, having read the despatches before leaving his bed, caused the man who had brought them to be summoned, that he might give some particular details by word of mouth concerning the last illness of the Duke. The courier was accordingly admitted to the Prince's bed-chamber, and proved to be one Francis Guion, as he called himself.
"There's no reason why you shouldn't do it; there's only a reason why I shouldn't let you." "I don't see why you shouldn't let me. It mayn't be just what you'd like, but it's surely better than than what you wouldn't like at all." Taking in the significance of these words, Guion colored, not with the healthy young flush that came so readily to Davenant's face, but in dabbled, hectic spots.
Above the horizon a shimmering halo marked the cluster of cities and towns. In the immediate foreground the great elm was leafless now, but for that reason more clearly etched against the starlight line on line, curve on curve, sweeping, drooping, interlaced. Guion stood with head up and figure erect, as if from strength given back to him.
"I think I remember hearing about them," he said, for the sake of saying something; "but " "I should like to go and talk with my father. Would you mind waiting?" She made as though she would pass him, but he managed to bar her way. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Miss Guion. If he's not well it'll only upset him. Why not let everything be just as it is?
Davenant to come in." He uttered the words mechanically. He had not thought of Davenant since he talked with Olivia on the stairs a conversation that now seemed a curiously long time ago. "I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr. Guion," the visitor said, apologetically, with a glance at the letters on the desk.
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