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Updated: May 29, 2025
"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.
He had been looking at himself in the mirror with a satisfaction which, to the casual observer, his appearance would not have seemed to justify. Hignett had not been suffering from a delusion. His cousin's face was black; and, even as he turned, he gave it a dab with a piece of burnt cork and made it blacker. "Hullo! You awake?" he said and switched on the light.
But where is he going to live when he gets to England?" "Where is he going to live? Why, at Windles, of course. Where else?" "But I thought you were letting Windles for the summer?" Mrs. Hignett stared. "Letting Windles!" She spoke as one might address a lunatic. "What put that extraordinary idea into your head?" "I thought father said something about your letting the place to some American."
This is the finest thing that could possibly have happened. These are not idle words. As one who has been engaged to the girl himself, I speak feelingly. You are well out of it, Sam." Sam thrust aside his hand. Had it been his neck he might have clutched it eagerly, but he drew the line at shaking hands with Eustace Hignett. "My heart is broken," he said with dignity.
The more pessimistic began to fear that the imitation was going to be one of those imitations of well-known opera artistes which, though rare, do occasionally add to the horrors of ships' concerts. They stared at Hignett apprehensively. There seemed to them something ominous in the man's very aspect. His face was very pale and set, the face of one approaching a task at which his humanity shudders.
The more pessimistic began to fear that the imitation was going to be one of those imitations of well-known opera artistes which, though rare, do occasionally add to the horrors of ships' concerts. They stared at Hignett apprehensively. There seemed to be something ominous in the man's very aspect. His face was very pale and set, the face of one approaching a task at which his humanity shudders.
He had a brown and amiable face, marred at the moment by an expression of discomfort somewhat akin to that of a cat in a strange alley. "Hallo, Aunt Adeline!" he said awkwardly. "Well, Samuel!" said Mrs. Hignett. There was a pause. Mrs.
She stepped into the drawing-room with the single-minded purpose of routing Eustace out of his sleep and giving him a good talking-to for having failed to maintain her own standard of efficiency among the domestic staff. If there was one thing on which Mrs. Horace Hignett had always insisted it was that every window in the house must be closed at lights-out.
Did she have 'em tearing up the seats in Schenectady? Was she a riot in Chicago and a cyclone in St. Louis? Those are the points on which he desires information, or give him his money back. I cannot supply the information. And, before you condemn me, let me hastily add that the fault is not mine but that of Mrs. Hignett herself. The fact is, she never went to Buffalo.
Mrs. Hignett quivered, and cast an eye on the hump in the bedclothes which represented dear Eustace. A cold fear had come upon her. "'Dear Eustace!" she repeated mechanically. "We're engaged," said Jane. "Engaged! Eustace, is this true?" "Yes," said a muffled voice from the interior of the bed. "And poor Eustace is so worried," continued Jane, "about the house." She went on quickly.
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