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Updated: June 2, 2025
It seemed to her, that Polonaise of Chopin, the most immoral music, the music of defiance and revolt. It flung abroad the prodigal's prodigality, his insolent and iniquitous joy. That was what he, a bad man, made of an innocent thing. Majendie's face lit up, responsive to the delight and challenge of the opening chord. "He's all right," said he, "as long as he can play."
She divined that Mrs. Majendie had never forgiven her husband for his old intimacy with her. It was Mrs. Majendie's jealousy that had driven him out of the house, into the arms of pretty Maggie. Where, she wondered, would Mrs. Majendie's jealousy of pretty Maggie drive him? Though Sarah knew Majendie, that was more than she would undertake to say.
Owing to the Hannays' determination to rise to it, the dinner-party, in being rigidly select, was of necessity extremely small. "Miss Mildred Wharton Sir Rigley Barker Mr. Gorst. Now you all know each other." The last person introduced had lingered with a certain charming diffidence at Mrs. Majendie's side.
Anne Majendie had held her empire, and had made herself for ever desirable, by six years of systematic torturings and deceptions and denials, by all the infidelities of the saint in love with her own sanctity. The woman who was to bring him back now would have to borrow for a moment a little of Anne Majendie's spiritual splendour.
Her heart beat violently with the thought that he might be beginning to come late. The others had come late when they began to love her. She had forgotten them, or only cared to remember such of their ways as threw light on Mr. Majendie's. For he was, as yet, obscure to her.
Edith's hand was on the sleeve of Majendie's coat, caressing it. She looked up at Anne. "And what," said she, "do you think of my little brother, on the whole?" "I think he says a great many things he doesn't mean." "Oh, you've found that out, have you? What else have you discovered?" The gay question made Anne's eyelids drop like curtains on her tragedy.
Hannay continued to play cheerful elaborations on the theme of friendship, till her husband appeared with the other three men. He had his hand on Majendie's shoulder, and Mrs. Hannay's soft smile drew Mrs. Majendie's attention to this manifestation of intimacy. And it dawned on Anne that Mrs.
Vagueness was his foible, the relaxation of an intellect uncomfortably keen. In that mood the incomprehensible had for him a certain charm. Mrs. Eliott had too much good taste to criticise Anne Majendie's. They had simply got to recognise that Prior Street had more to offer her than Thurston Square. That was the way she preferred to put it, effacing herself a little ostentatiously.
Anne had spent half an hour in Thurston Square, and had come away with a cold, unsatisfactory feeling towards Fanny. Fanny, for the first time, had jarred on her. She had so plainly hesitated between condolence and congratulation. She seemed to be secretly rejoicing in Edith Majendie's death.
Majendie's action was unexpected, and for a time I did not see its significance. But let us suppose for a moment that Majendie did throw the bag of stones away. He might argue that some one might possibly see the action, and would note that it was done by a left-handed man, so used his right hand to deceive any one who might be there. Hence his bad aim." I shook my head. "Wait," said Quarles.
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