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Updated: June 22, 2025
Nobody nobody," Miss Hugonin lamented, a forlorn little quiver in her voice, "ever seemed to be honest with me except you, and now I know you weren't. Oh, beautiful, aren't I ever to have any real friends?" she pleaded, wistfully. Kennaston had meant a deal to her, you see; he had been the one man she trusted.
"It has been for many years," Mr. Kennaston began, "the custom of patriotic gentlemen in quest of office to point with pride to the fact that the schoolmaster is abroad in the land, in whose defense they stand pledged to draw their salaries and fight to the last gasp for reelection. These lofty platitudes, while trying to the lungs, doubtless appeal to a certain class of minds.
Mr. Kennaston was in vein to-night; he scintillated; he was also a little nervous.
Why, God bless her, her heart's bigger than a barn-door! Oh, it's no wonder that fellow Kennaston was grinning just now when he sent me to her! He can afford to grin." Aloud, he stated, "You're an angel, Peggy that's what you are. I've always suspected it, and I'm glad to know it now for a fact. But in this prosaic world not even angels are allowed to burn up wills for recreation.
She had gloried in his fustian rhetoric, his glib artlessness, his airy scorn of money; and now all this proved mere pinchbeck. On a sudden, too, there woke in some bycorner of her heart a queasy realisation of how near she had come to loving Kennaston. The thought nauseated her. "My dear," he answered, kindly, "you will have any number of friends now that you are poor.
That Felix Kennaston inhabits Lichfield in the flesh and in the spirit elopes into Poictesme may be taken, after a fashion, as allegory with an autobiographical foundation: The Cream of the Jest is, on the whole, the essence of Cabell.
Oh, really, Mr. Kennaston," she cried, earnestly, "you'd much better not tell me!" "Ah, Margaret, Margaret," he pleaded, "I am not adamant. I am only a man, with a man's heart that hungers for you, cries for you, clamours for you day by day! I love you, beautiful child love you with a poet's love that is alien to these sordid days, with a love that is half worship.
And and if anything should happen, I'm always ready to go behind a cloud, you know. So, speak out! speak out, man, if you've the heart of a mouse!" Thus far the conscienceless spring moon. Mr. Kennaston sighed. The moon took this as a promising sign and brightened over it perceptibly, and thereby afforded him an excellent gambit. "Yes?" said Margaret. "What is it, beautiful?"
But many maidens remained whom memory delights to catalogue, tall, brilliant Lizzie Allardyce, the lovely and cattish Marian Winwood, to whom Felix Kennaston wrote those wonderful love-letters which she published when he married Kathleen Saumarez, the rich Baugh heiresses from Georgia, the Pride twins, and Mattie Ferneyhaugh, whom even rival beauties loved, they say, and other damsels by the score, all in due time to be wooed and won, and then to pass out of the old town's life.
Felix, are you sure you care for me quite sure? And are you quite certain, Felix, that you never cared so much for any one else?" Mr. Kennaston was quite certain. He proceeded to explain his feelings toward her at some length. Kathleen listened with downcast eyes and almost cheated herself into the belief that the man she loved was all that he should be.
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