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Updated: May 2, 2025
"I just want to see how things have been fixed up in my rooms." He had not the least notion where or what his rooms were in the vast pile. "Yes, sir," Machin responded eagerly, delighted that Mr. Prohack was making to herself, as an old friend, an appeal which he ought to have made to the butler. Mr.
He thought, considering the importance of the Regent Theatre and the salary he was paying to his press-agent, that the newspapers ought to occupy their pages solely with the metropolitan affairs of Edward Henry Machin. But the wretched Isabel had, as it were, got London by the throat.
Hinc illae lachrymae!" ... "Not at all," said Mr. Machin in reply to a question, "I have the highest admiration for Miss Euclid's genius. I should not presume to dictate to her as to her art. She has had a very long experience of the stage, very long, and doubtless knows better than I do. Only, the Regent happens to be my theatre, and I'm responsible for it.
If Wilbraham wanted to keep his old shanty to himself, he shouldn't send out invitations. It's simple enough not to send out invitations. Now, Nellie!" He was hanging over the balustrade at the curve of the stairs. The familiar ease with which he said, "Now, Nellie," and especially the spontaneity of Nellie's instant response, put new thoughts into the mind of Mrs Machin.
Brool, towards whom Mr. Prohack felt no impulse of good-will, came largely in with a salver on which were the morning letters and the morning papers, including the paper perused by Machin with her early bedside tea and doubtless carefully folded again in its original creases to look virginal. The reappearance of that sheet had somewhat the quality of a sinister miracle to Mr. Prohack.
Mrs Machin perceived then, in a flash of terrible illumination, that there never had been any Cecil Wilbraham; that Denry had merely invented him and his long moustaches and his wall eye for the purpose of getting the better of his mother. The whole affair was an immense swindle upon her.
E.H. Machin's acting manager and technical adviser. Edward Henry could trace the hand of Marrier in all the paragraphs. Marrier had lost no time. Mrs. Machin, senior, came into the drawing-room just as he was adjusting the "Tannhäuser" overture to the mechanician. The piece was one of his major favourites. "This is no place for you, my lad," said Mrs. Machin, grimly, glancing round the room.
The facts reached everybody; for the singular reappearance of Nellie in the streets of Bursley immediately after her departure for Canada had to be explained. Moreover, the infamous Denry was rather proud of the facts. And the town inevitably said: "Machin all over, that! Snatching the girl off the blooming lugger. Machin all over." And Denry agreed privately that it was Machin all over.
Mrs Machin would have given all her furs to be anywhere off those planks. On the adjacent fields of glittering snow the Captain had been giving his adored Countess a lesson in the use of skis; and they stood together, the Countess somewhat insecure, by the side of the track at its first curve. Nellie, dumb with excitement and amazement, swept towards them. "Look out!" cried the Captain. In vain!
Naturally, London was holding its breath. London will keep calm during moderate crises such as a national strike or the agony of the House of Lords but when the supreme excitation is achieved London knows how to let itself go. "If you please, Mr. Machin " He turned. It was his typewriter, Miss Lindop, a young girl of some thirty-five years, holding a tea-tray.
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