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Henley asked, incredulously, his face falling into seriousness. "I have never laid eyes on this chap before." "I reckon not, but you'll know him the next time you see him; I'll be bound you do, even if you are a mile down the road an' he's round the bend with his back turned to you. The truth is, I just followed him down here to see who he'd strike next. He's been to our house, Alf.
It is a beefy, commonplace countenance, heavy, dull, and vacant, rendered trivial and conceited by foppish mustaches curled up beneath the nostrils. It bears little resemblance to the familiar Droeshout portrait engraved for the first edition of the plays, and still less to the so-called Stratford portrait exhibited at the museum on Henley Street.
Nay, you said you thought them very fine! Oh! Yes! True! Very fine! All about love I recollect. Well, and having so much faith in love, you do not think them the worse for that. Oh, by no means! But I thought you had. Love in a song may be pardonable. Especially, madam, if the song be written by Mr. Henley. Clifton! You almost teach me to despair! You do not know me!
I've got it all mixed up." Henley's wide-staring eyes sought Dixie's face. She was pale, still, and mute. "Well, I've got to be going," she said, in a quavering voice to old Jason. "I haven't had a chance, Mr. Wrinkle, to ask you how Mrs. Henley likes it over there. I hope your wife is well.
During George II.'s reign, young Robert Henley so mercilessly badgered one Zephaniah Reeve, whom he had occasion to cross-examine in a trial at Bristol, that the infuriated witness Quaker and peace-loving merchant though he was sent his persecutor a challenge immediately upon leaving court.
Henley referred to was Anthony Henley, a man of family and fortune, and one of the most distinguished of the wits of that age, to whom Garth dedicated The Dispensary.
He is a great man; he has read everything; seen everything; known everybody. Exception to him could be taken only on one ground. He is perfectly awful. He belongs to an old school; splenetic, choleric. He is Sir-Anthony-Absolute-like; a critic in the spirit of the thundering days of William Ernest Henley. His face is like a beefsteak. His frame is like "a mountain walking." His voice, Johnsonian.
There was something in this, remembering as he did that Bradley had persistently pursued the girl with attentions, which not only angered Henley, but filled him with concern for her safety. The half-drunken brute might take it into his head to follow her down the lonely road which she had to traverse to reach her house.
But not a Mr. Henley? Not at present, sir. Time I hope will make him one. No, child, never. Why so, sir? I cannot tell why, but I am sure it never will. They are two very different men. Mr. Clifton, sir, has uncommon powers of mind. May be so; I suppose so; I only say they are very different men. Their tempers are different, their opinions, their manners, every thing.
I may as well face the worst at once. You shall hear more when I return. Oh, Fairfax! I could curse most copiously, in all heathenish and christian tongues! She has shut herself up, and refuses to see me! This infernal fellow Frank Henley is returned too. He arrived two hours after the express. I suspect it came from him; nay I suspect Flames and furies! I must tell you!
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