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Updated: May 29, 2025
But the girl I met on the dock...." "Don't!" said Eustace Hignett. "If you have anything bitter and derogatory to say about women, say it and I will listen eagerly. But if you merely wish to gibber about the ornamental exterior of some dashed girl you have been fool enough to get attracted by, go and tell it to the captain or the ship's cat or J. B. Midgeley.
He allowed himself to drift into pleasant meditation. There was a scrambling sound outside the door. The handle turned. "Hullo! Back already?" said Eustace, opening his eyes. The next moment he opened them wider. His mouth gaped slowly like a hole in a sliding cliff. Mrs. Horace Hignett was standing at his bedside.
I seem at this point to see the reader a great brute of a fellow with beetling eyebrows and a jaw like the ram of a battleship, the sort of fellow who is full of determination and will stand no nonsense rising to remark that he doesn't care what happened to Samuel Marlowe and that what he wants to know is, how Mrs. Hignett made out on her lecturing-tour. Did she go big in Buffalo?
The untidy heap of bedclothes in the lower berth stirred restlessly. "Oh, God!" said Eustace Hignett thrusting out a tousled head. Sam regarded his cousin with commiseration. Horrid things had been happening to Eustace during the last few days, and it was quite a pleasant surprise each morning to find that he was still alive. "Feeling bad again, old man?"
The hands of the Dutch clock in the hall pointed to thirteen minutes past nine; those of the ormolu clock in the sitting-room to eleven minutes past ten; those of the carriage clock on the bookshelf to fourteen minutes to six. In other words, it was exactly eight; and Mrs. Hignett acknowledged the fact by moving her head on the pillow, opening her eyes, and sitting up in bed.
"This is intolerable!" cried Mrs. Hignett. "Did you tell him that I was busy?" "I did not. I loosed him into the dining-room." "Is he a reporter from one of the newspapers?" "He is not. He has spats and a tall-shaped hat. His name is Bream Mortimer." "Bream Mortimer!" "Yes, ma'am. He handed me a bit of a kyard, but I dropped it, being slippy from the dishes." Mrs.
I seem at this point to see the reader a great brute of a fellow with beetling eyebrows and a jaw like the ram of a battleship, the sort of fellow who is full of determination and will stand no nonsense rising to remark that he doesn't care what happened to Samuel Marlowe and that what he wants to know is, how Mrs. Hignett made out on her lecturing-tour. Did she go big in Buffalo?
Bream Mortimer seemed embarrassed. He wriggled a little, and moved his arms as if he were trying to flap them. "You know," he said, "I'm not a man who butts into other people's affairs...." He stopped. "No?" said Mrs. Hignett. Bream began again. "I'm not a man who gossips with valets...." "No?" "I'm not a man who...." Mrs. Hignett was never a very patient woman.
Horace Hignett, the world-famous writer on Theosophy, going over to America to begin a lecture-tour; and no one realises more keenly than I do that I have left Mrs. Hignett flat. I have thrust that great thinker into the background and concentrated my attention on the affairs of one who is both her mental and moral inferior, Samuel Marlowe.
All through her vivid life her bedroom had been a sort of cosy corner for murderers, alligators, tarantulas, scorpions, and every variety of snake, so she accepted the middle-aged lady without comment. "Good evening," she said placidly. Mrs. Hignett, having rallied from her moment of weakness, glared at the new arrival dumbly. She could not place Jane.
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