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The Nugents were there, but the Gwynnes were absent, and she had the pleasure of feeling that she had as many, if not more, partners than the heiress, Miss Nugent, and was much more grandly dressed. As for Miss Rice Rice, she fell quite into the shade before her.

"Is he the typical Englishman I mean apart from his peculiar gifts?" "Only in certain qualities. You see he has Celtic blood in him: of course the Gwynnes had their origin in Wales; and then he is one-fourth American, isn't he? I can't say how far that inheritance has influenced his character, but there is no doubt about the Celtic.

"Ice cold, indeed, glacier water, you know, and these logs make it very awkward. The Gwynnes must be running down their timber and firewood. We might just run up and look in on them. It's only a mile or so. Nora will be there. She will be 'bossing the job, as she says. It will be rather interesting." "Well, I hope it is not too far, for I assure you I am getting quite ravenous."

Ruyler was one of his few intimate friends and had promised to go to this farewell dinner if possible. A place would be kept vacant for him until the last minute. The Gwynnes and the Thorntons until Ruyler met Hélène had been the friends whose society he had sought most in his rare hours of leisure, and he had spent many summer week-ends at their country homes.

Please don't recall that ghastly radicalism to me." "Never mind what it sounds like. You will get it too. We all catch it here, especially Old Country folk. For instance, look away to the left there. See that little clump of buildings beside the lake just through the poplars. There is a family of Canadians typical of the best, the Gwynnes, our closest neighbours. Good Irish stock, they are.

On the door step of the Gwynnes' house, arrested on the threshold by the robin's song, stood the Gwynne boy of ten years, his eager face uplifted, himself poised like a bird for flight. "Law-r-ence," clear as a bird call came the voice from within. "Mo-th-er," rang the boy's voice in reply, high, joyous and shrill. "Ear-ly! Remember!" "Ri-ght a-way af-ter school.

"Are they all old masters?" asked Miss Isabel Otis, politely, her eyes roving over the dark canvases. "Oh no; the masters are down-stairs. I'll show them to you to-morrow. These are not bad, though." "What a lot of ancestors to have!" "Oh, you'll find them all over the house. These are not Gwynnes. This house came to Lord Strathland through the female line.

To think that my long-past romantic dream should be likely to come true, and that next year we should go to Scotland and see papa's dear old aunt." "You will go, my child." "And you too, darling. Think how much you would like it, when the summer comes. You will be quite strong then; and how pleasant it will be to know that good aunt Flora, of whom the Gwynnes talk so much.

There he stood first looking up the country road which in the village became a street. There was nothing to be seen except that in the Martin orchard "Ol' Martin" was working with his team under the trees which came in rows down to the road. Finding nothing to interest him there, he turned toward the village and his eyes searched the street. Opposite the Gwynnes' gate, Dr.

And whatever this hideous tragedy brooding over his life he would go out and come to grips with it at once. And in the corridor he saw his wife chatting gayly with a group of young friends. Her color was paler than usual, perhaps, but that was not uncommon at a party, and otherwise she was as unruffled, as normal in appearance and manner, as when they had parted at the Gwynnes'.