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Updated: June 11, 2025
Stillwood called him a "low beast" in her most aristocratic tones, and swept out of the room. Not that old Stillwood himself ever expressed fondness for the law. "I am not at all sure, Kelver," I remember his saying to me on one occasion, "that you have done wisely in choosing the law. It makes one regard humanity morally as the medical profession regards it physically: as universally unsound.
I found it difficult to recognise in her the flaming Fury that a few minutes before had sprung at me from the billows of her torn blue skirt. She shook hands with the red-haired man and kissed her father. "My daughter," said old Deleglise, introducing me to her. "Mr. Paul Kelver, a literary gent." "Mr. Kelver and I have met already," she explained. "He has been waiting for you here in the studio."
Kelver," he would say, lighting his pipe and sinking down into the deep leathern chair that always waited for him in our parlour. "Your even voice, your soft eyes, your quiet hands, they soothe me."
"Three of me have, but on each occasion the other five of me out-voted him." "You're sure six would be sufficient?" queried my mother, smiling. "Just the right number, Mrs. Kelver.
You say such funny things." It struck me like a slap in the face. I had thought to reach popularity upon the ladder of heroic qualities. Not one of them had ever said a funny thing, either consciously or unconsciously. "Don't be disagreeable, Kelver. Come with us and we will let you into the team as an extra. I'll teach you batting."
He laughed: it was not a frivolity to which he was prone. "You mean, my dear Kelver that you will." "Don't look so dumbfounded," he went on. "You cannot be so stupid as you are pretending to be. The original manuscript at the Lord Chamberlain's office is in your handwriting. You knew our friend as well as I did, and visited him. Why, the whole tour has been under your management.
She was standing before her glass, a loose shawl about her shoulders. "Excuse my shaking hands," she said. "This damned hole is like a furnace; I have to make up fresh after each act." She held them up for my inspection with a laugh; they were smeared with grease. "D'you know my husband?" she continued. "Baron G ; Mr. Paul Kelver." The Baron rose. He was a red-faced, pot-bellied little man.
"Kelver," supplied Miss Sellars. "Kelver, to make your ac-quain-tance," recited Mrs. Sellars in the tone of one repeating a lesson. I bowed, and murmured that the honour was entirely mine. "Don't mention it," replied Mrs. Sellars. "Pray be seated." Mrs. Sellars herself set the example by suddenly giving way and dropping down into her chair, which thus again became invisible.
"I hope not, Kelver, I hope not," the old gentleman replied; "and yet, do you know, I sometimes suspect myself wonder if I may not perhaps be a scamp without realising it. A rogue, you know, Kelver, can always explain himself into an honest man to his own satisfaction. A scamp is never a scamp to himself."
At the top of the kitchen stairs Miss Sellars paused and called down shrilly to Mrs. Peedles, who in course of time appeared, panting. "Oh, me and Mr. Kelver are going out for a short walk, Mrs. Peedles. I shan't want any supper. Good night." "Oh, good night, my dear," replied Mrs. Peedles. "Hope you'll enjoy yourselves. Is Mr. Kelver there?"
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