United States or Mozambique ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Isaacs in Baker Street, but was supposed to have been played by the fair fingers of Lady Kingsmead's grandmother. The furniture and hangings, all new, belonged to Messrs. Bampton in Piccadilly, as did the carpets. The pictures, belonging to the entail, were paid for. Lady Kingsmead lay on a chaise-longue and played with a Persian kitten named Omar.
Neither did she ever forget a woman in shabby mourning who insisted on giving her a packet of somebody's incomparable milk chocolate. Then at last London a rush in a hansom to Victoria from Charing Cross, and the familiar little journey homewards. It was about three o'clock when she reached Kingsmead, and raining hard.
"Yes, it's all very well to laugh, Doctor Kingsmead, and talk about studying a whopping from a natural history point of view, but one couldn't study wasps comfortably sitting on their nest." "No, and I daresay the cuts were very painful, but the sting will soon pass off." "Yes, it's getting better now," said Carey, looking a little more cheerful; "but old Bob keeps on grinning about it.
Kingsmead always was an ass, but no one would have believed that even he could be such an imbecile as to leave that boy entirely in his wife's hands." "So ducky, I always think him, though not pretty," returned the Cassowary. As they left the dining-room Kingsmead whispered to his sister, "I say, Bicky, look out for Ponty. He's a bit boiled."
It was not intrinsically beautiful, the scene, but as some chord in the human breast almost invariably vibrates in response to a view of salt water, this point was considered, at Kingsmead, to be a particularly important one, and as the motor flew on Brigit Mead wondered how many hundred times she had brought people there with the same curt introduction, "There is the sea."
It was mid-May, and a fragrant breeze stirred the delicate curtains of Lady Kingsmead's little drawing-room in Pont Street. Lady Kingsmead, dressed in pale pink, looked in the faint light very pretty as she leaned back in her deep chair and played with the Persian cat.
"Good Lord, Gerald! what is the matter?" "Matter enough. Brigit is Victor Joyselle's mistress." He sank into a chair and pressed his thin hands together until the bones cracked. "Gerald!" "She is! she is! I have just come from his studio in Chelsea. Followed her there. She was alone with him for over an hour. And when she came out " Lady Kingsmead rose and went to him.
Lady Kingsmead, very much bored with her guests, had her useful headache, and the girl had to hurry into dry clothes, for the rain had come on, and play hostess. "Tea, M. Joyselle?" He made a wry and very ludicrous face. "Merci, Lady Brigit!" "French people always loathe tea, my dear," laughed the Duchess; "they take it when they have colds, as we take quinine."
Poor Lady Kingsmead, more lovable in her distress than her daughter had ever seen her, obeyed him humbly, and promising to wear pink, or whatever the colour might be, crept away to her bedroom and cried until she was scarcely recognisable. Two days passed thus, the doctor coming many times and shaking his head doubtfully over questions about his patient.
"Sorry to wake you, mother," she said, her voice shaky, "but might I sleep with you? I have had such a bad dream and am nervous." Lady Kingsmead luckily liked to have her vanity played upon by such requests. It pleased her to have her daughter turn to her. "Of course, darling," she said sleepily.
Word Of The Day