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Updated: May 20, 2025
Then, suddenly ashamed of herself, the girl had begged her mother's pardon, but Lady Kingsmead was not of those to whom the crowning charm of graceful forgiveness has been vouchsafed, and the battle went on. To end it, Brigit announced her intention of going to stop with her friend Pam de Lensky, and without more ado, or a word of good-bye, had left the house.
I think something has happened. She looked queer." Pam started. "Poor dear I'll go and speak to her only, you know, she never says a word to me about her trouble, whatever it is. I wonder " "Love story, of course," returned Lensky, briefly. "When a woman looks like that it always is a love story." "Yes, but Théo is such a dear! And I know he writes to her." "Then it isn't Théo.
He's not the only man she knows." Pam frowned thoughtfully. "That's true, but she is so beautiful." Lensky smiled at her, and on his strangely white, shrewd, worldly-wise face the smile looked like a sudden flash of sunlight. "Yes, she is without a doubt very beautiful, but " "'But'?" "I think she is taking her trouble the wrong way.
The house was old, and the walls defective in many places, and Pammy's joy was to dig out bits of ancient plaster and consume it on the sly. It was presumably bad for her stomach and indubitably bad for her character, as the child persisted in it with a quiet effrontery that baulked discipline. So Mrs. de Lensky rose, and bidding Eliza look after the baby, started in search of the wicked one.
"'Tous les gouts sont dans la nature, my dear," quoted Lensky, coming in at the open window, "there are even people who like German bands!" Looking down at Pammy through his eyeglass, the sun fell full on his head, betraying an incipient bald patch. Otherwise Lensky had aged not at all since his marriage. "I saw Lady Brigit just now," he said, suddenly, "down in the olive grove.
Take up our immortal Pushkin and read over the description of the death of Lensky in 'Yevgenia Onegin. Do you remember? The windows are white-washed. The mistress has gone that's all. There is nothing more for me to say. Were I to say all I wanted to, it would take up too much time.
"Théo has been fairly contented and I have been trying to tide things over no, I haven't, I've just funked it, Pam. I don't know what I'm to do. I've loved being here, for you and M. de Lensky are so good to me but I'm afraid he might come " "Théo?" "No," sharply, "Joyselle. He adores Théo and would hack me to pieces if it would do him any good. And well, I'm afraid of him."
To Pam Lensky she wrote a rather long letter, for there were some few things she wanted made clear. "Dear Pam," she began abruptly "I am going away with Victor Joyselle. I wonder if you will blame me? In case you do, here is my only defence. I hate my present life, I am miserable without Joyselle, and he is miserable without me.
She is bearing it without grinning, and the grinning is to my mind the greater half." "But remember what her surroundings at home are, Jack. She had had no discipline whatever; her mother is horrid " Lensky did not answer. Somehow he never cared to hold forth on the subject of mothers to his wife.
One day in January Mrs. de Lensky was sitting on the floor in the brick-floored nursery, building a Moorish palace for her son, aged eighteen months. She was a thin woman of thirty-six or seven, with large dark eyes, somewhat hollow now, and a brown vivid face on which life had put several deep lines all of which, though unbeautiful in themselves, were good lines, and made for character.
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