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He felt shy and yet very happy alone with her. Voices were distinctly heard. Who was Mrs. Lobley? Was Mr. Haim a little annoyed with his daughter, and was Marguerite exquisitely defiant? Time hung. The situation was slightly awkward, he thought.
"Marry Mrs. Lobley! Of course I shall marry her!" Haim's voice rose. "What right have you to settle where I shall marry and where I shan't?" "I've fixed everything up with Celia Agg," said Marguerite very quietly. "You've soon arranged it!" No reply from Marguerite. The old man spoke again: "You've no right It'll be an open scandal." Then a silence.
He was the dead image of the sun in old woodcuts, his hair and whiskers answering for rays all around him. Resplendent in the bow of the boat, he was a shining sight, with a man-of-war's man's shirt on or off, according to opinion and his arms and breast tattooed all sorts of patterns. Lobley seemed to take it easily, and so did Mr.
They both had sight of him through the open door of the parlour. Marguerite was obviously disturbed to see him there, but she went straight into the room. George moved into the darkness of his own room. He heard the voices of the other two. "Then you mean to go?" Haim asked accusingly. Marguerite answered in a calm, good-humoured, sweet tone: "Of course, if you mean to marry Mrs. Lobley."
He's simply all respectability. Respectability's his god Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Always has been. He'd sacrifice everything to respectability except the lovely Lobley. It's not respectable in a respectable family for a girl to leave home on account of her stepmother. And so he's in a state, if you please!... If he wanted to carry on with Mrs. Lobley, let him carry on with her. But no!
But he never cared for mother anything like so much as he cared for Mrs. Lobley at least not as far back as I can remember. It was a different sort of thing altogether. I think he was perfectly mad about Mrs. Lobley. Oh! He stood mother's death much much better than hers! You've no idea " "Oh yes, I have. We know all about that sort of thing," said George the man of the world impatiently.
Marguerite's bent, tranquil face had a pleasant look as she handled the crockery. "I shall get him a nice breakfast to-morrow," she said, also in a whisper. "And as soon as he's gone to the office I shall pack. It won't take me long, really." "But won't Mrs. Lobley be here?" "What if she is? I've nothing against Mrs. Lobley.
"Yes," he proceeded, as it were reflectively, "I have asked Mrs. Lobley to be my wife, and she has done me the honour to consent." He had the air of having invented the words specially to indicate that Mrs. Lobley was descending from a throne in order to espouse him. It could not have occurred to him that they had ever been used before and that the formula was classic.
He had possessed many such books. But it had never occurred to him that the gay bindings of them were each the result of individual human thought and labour. He pulled at his cigarette. There was a sound of pushing and rattling outside. "What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Haim. "It's the area door. I bolted it. I dare say it's Mrs. Lobley," said the girl indifferently. Mr. Haim moved sharply.
Several seconds elapsed before George recognized in her Mrs. Lobley, the charwoman of No. 8, and when he did so he was a little surprised at her presentableness. He had met her very seldom in the house. He was always late for breakfast, and his breakfast was always waiting for him. On Sundays he was generally out.
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