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Updated: May 19, 2025
I got the impression at dinner that you'd heard something already." "Nothing but gossip, Henry." Guion smiled, but with a wince. "I've noticed," he said, "that there's a certain kind of gossip that rarely gets about unless there's some cause for it on the principle of no smoke without fire. If you've heard anything, it's probably true." "I was afraid it might be.
It only strikes me as curious that your sympathy should take that turn." "Precisely," Miss Guion chimed in. "It's not a bit like you, papa. You used to be harder on dishonorable things than any one." "Well, I'm not now." It was clear to Davenant by this time that in these words Guion was not so much making a statement as flinging a challenge.
After that the food they brought her choked her and the maid's touch on her person was like fire, while she still found herself obliged to submit to these long-established attentions. She was reduced to drawing patience from what Guion told her as to his illness checking temporarily the course of legal action.
He had had long interviews with Dixon about the case already, and knew how reluctant that official was to move in the matter, anyhow; but as soon as he, Guion, was out and about again, all kindly scruples would have to yield. "You'll find," he explained to her, "that the question as to breaking-camp will settle itself then.
In the exchange of scraps of gossip and latest London anecdotes between Miss Guion and Drusilla Fane, on which Henry Guion commented, Davenant felt himself to be looking at a vivid but fitfully working cinematograph, of which the scenes were snatched at random from life as lived anywhere between Washington and Simla, or Inverness and Rome. The effect was both instructive and entertaining.
This is a rather startling statement when one reflects that the Arizona of the Guion line seems to a generation still living a modern steamer and record-holder. It is even more impressive when coupled with the fact that, of the innumerable passenger steamers traversing the seas today, only a few are capable of a speed of more than eighteen knots.
I don't know any others." Ashley felt sick. He had never in his life felt such repulsion as toward what seemed to him this facile, theatrical remorse. If Guion was really contrite, if he really wanted to relieve the world of his presence, he could blow his brains out. Ashley had known, or known of, so many who had resorted to this ready remedy for a desperate plight that it seemed simple.
Even the monotonous tramp-tramp of their footsteps, as the Embankment became more deserted, got on his nerves. It was long before Davenant made a new attempt to fulfil his mission. "In saying what I said just now," he began, in what he tried to make a reasonable tone, "I've no ax to grind for myself. If Miss Guion " "We'll leave that name out," Ashley cried, sharply.
The courier who brought the despatches was admitted to the prince's bedroom. He called himself Francis Guion, the son of a martyred Calvinist, but he was in reality Balthazar Gérard, a fanatical Catholic who had for years formed the design of murdering the Prince of Orange. The interview was so entirely unexpected that Gérard had come unarmed, and had formed no plans for escape.
His pleasure was largely in the anticipation of soon leaving that country with all the honors and Olivia Guion besides. It was a gratification to the Ashley spirit, too, to note how promptly the right thing had paid. It was really something to take to heart.
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