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Updated: June 16, 2025
"Come," said Markham, his hand on the donkey's halter. "This will never do. We will go on, please." Hermia stood her ground a moment defiantly, her arms akimbo and then dumbly followed. Markham led the way toward the market-place, where the crowds were gathered. The glance he stole at Hermia revealed a set expression, a cheek highly flushed and a lambent eye.
It was quite evident that Hermia was playing her game rather ruthlessly and, whatever her object, John Markham and she for the present at least were at cross purposes. Olga did not dare to go to see him, and though her door stood open she had no hope that he would enter it without encouragement. But one blithe morning she sent him a note: What's this I hear?
The good lady sank into a chair, the severe lines in her face more than usually acidulous, but Hermia only smiled sweetly, for Mrs. Westfield's forbidding aspect, as she well knew, concealed the most indulgent of dispositions. "Playing polo with men, racing in your motor and getting yourself talked about in the papers! Really, Hermia, what will you be doing next?" "Flying," said Hermia. Mrs.
Markham, whose nose had been narrowly missed by the flying slippers, drew back in astonishment. "Hello!" panted Hermia, laughing. "Reggie was chasing me, so I slipped over the balustrade onto the pergola " She stopped and looked with quick intuition from one to the other. "Sorry I blunder'd in here, though, Olga awfully sorry. Did I kick you in the nose, Mr. Markham?"
He saw the marks of it all about him, the thing one called "good form," the undercurrent of strife for social honor, the corrugated brow of envy, the pomp and circumstance of spilled riches ah! here was where his shoe would pinch him the most. For Hermia Challoner was wealthy beyond the touch of Midas.
He did not know whether Miss Challoner was in or not, but he would see. Markham sat and impatiently waited, his eyes meanwhile restlessly roving the splendor of the room in search of some object which would suggest Hermia mad Hermia of Vagabondia.
He worked a while and then sat and smoked again, his thoughts afar. What sort of an influence was Olga Tcherny for the mind of this impressionable child? The Countess was clever, generous and wonderfully attractive to men and to women but, as Markham knew, her views of life were liberal and she was not wise at least, not with a wisdom which would help Hermia Challoner.
"Only the High Gods are omnipotent, Your Excellency; but, if I have seen rightly, he is as a god to us of the lower life, and therefore I would pray you again to utterly relinquish your lately and, as I have dared for your sake to say, rashly-formed designs to make the Queen who was, and his daughter that is, the sharer of your future throne. Is not the Princess Hermia noble and fair enough?"
The coffee served, their host departed with one last inquiry for their comfort, which more even than the cooking and service betrayed his appreciation of their proper condition. "Such a dinner!" said Hermia contemptuously when he went out. "I'm so disappointed. Where are your crust and sour wine, John Markham? I'm losing faith in your sincerity. I 'ask for bread' and you give me poulet Duchanel.
I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true gentleness." Saying these words in great anger, she ran away; and Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own Hermia, who was still asleep. When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at finding herself alone. She wandered about the wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander, or which way to go to seek for him.
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