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Updated: June 22, 2025
"Poor old Jernington! He is horror-stricken. Bury St. Edmunds has been his farthest beat till now except for his year in Germany. Claudie, he loves the opera or he would never have consented to come. I felt it was a test. The opera, the child, has stood it triumphantly. I love old Jernington. And he is a first-rate critic, isn't he?" "Of orchestration, certainly."
But it's just like a woman, I'm afraid! now I see another urging you on, I see plainly. It may be jealousy " "You jealous of old Jernington!" "I believe I am a tiny bit. But, apart really from that, you are looking dreadful these last few days. When you asked Jernington to prolong his visit I was horrified. You see, he's come to it all fresh. And then he's not creating. That's the tiring work.
Isn't the opera fine?" Now Jernington was a specialist, and he was one of those men who cannot detach their minds from the subject in which they specialize in order to take a broad view. His vision was extraordinarily acute, but it was strictly limited.
She even said to herself that of course she had never entertained it. But what was she to do? She tried to be a little cold to Jernington, thinking it might be possible to convey to him subtly the idea that perhaps his visit had lasted long enough, that his hostess had other plans in which his presence was not included.
The way in which he pushed his cuffs out of sight appealed to the goodness of her heart, although it displeased her æsthetic sense. She had to recognize the fact that old Jernington was one of those tiresome people you cannot be unkind to. Nevertheless she must get him out of the house and out of Africa.
And she knew that the fateful motor would inevitably find its way to the quay at Marseilles. She had had no difficulty in persuading Claude to go. When Jernington had departed Claude felt as if a strong prop had suddenly been knocked from under him, as if he might collapse. He could not work. Yet he felt as if in the little house which had seen his work he could not rest.
And old Jernington burnt it in the flame of the candle, and went away alone on the Maréchal Bugeaud the next morning, with apologies to Claude. The house did seem to Charmian quite different without him.
"Well, but the heat!" His voice did not sound reluctant or protesting, only a little doubtful and surprised. "Lots of people stay. Algiers doesn't empty of human beings, only of travellers, because it's summer. And we are up on a height." "That's true. And I could work on quietly." "Absolutely undisturbed." "The only thing is I meant to see Jernington."
Charmian could not doubt his admiration for the opera. It was expressed in a manner peculiar to Jernington that became almost epileptic, but it was undoubtedly sincere. When he left her and went back to Claude's workroom she was glowing with pride and happiness. "That funny old thing knows!" she thought. "He knows!" Jernington was usually called an old thing, although he was not yet forty.
The incessant work was beginning to tell upon him severely. Charmian saw that. But how could she beg him to rest now, when Jernington had come out, when it was so vital to their interests that the opera should be finished as soon as possible! Besides, she was certain that even if she spoke Claude would not listen to her. Jernington, so he said, always gave him an impetus, always excited him.
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