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Updated: May 18, 2025
'Love is not for such as me, said Mr. Dolbiac solemnly. Then he looked at his hostess, and called out in an undertone: 'I've begun. 'The question, said Miss Marchrose, clearing her throat, 'is, not what love is not, but what it is. 'You must kindly stand up, said Mr. Dolbiac. 'I can't hear. Miss Marchrose glanced at Mrs. Ashton Portway, and Mrs. Ashton Portway told Mr.
'Do you often go to the National Gallery, Mr. Knight? 'Not as often as I ought. Pause. Several observant women began to think that Miss Marchrose was not making the best of Henry that, indeed, she had proved unworthy of an unmerited honour. 'I sometimes think Miss Marchrose essayed.
'You'll pardon me, said Miss Marchrose, turning to him. 'If you are thinking of Matthew Arnold's introduction to the selected poems, you'll and 'My dear, said Mrs. Ashton Portway, suddenly looming up opposite the reciter, 'what a memory you have! 'Was it so long, then? murmured a tall man with spectacles and a light wavy beard. 'I shall send you back to Paris, Mr. Dolbiac, said Mrs.
Ashton Portway swiftly. 'I must introduce you to Miss Marchrose, the author of that charming hand-book to Pictures in London. Miss Marchrose, she called out, urging Henry towards a corner of the room, 'this is Mr. Knight. She sniggered on the name. 'He's just dropped into the National Gallery. Then Mrs.
Ashton Portway repeated. 'What can he mean? Mr. Dolbiac, you aren't playing the game. 'Yes, I am, gracious lady, he contradicted her. 'Well, what character are you, then? demanded Miss Marchrose, irritated by his grotesque pendant to her oration. 'I'm Gerald in A Question of Cubits. The company felt extremely awkward. Henry blushed. 'I said classical fiction, Mrs. Ashton Portway corrected Mr.
Sundry guests declined to play, on the ground that they lacked the needful brilliance. Henry declined utterly, but he had the wit not to give his reasons. It was he who suggested that the non-players should form a jury. At last seven players were recruited, including Mr. Ashton Portway, Miss Marchrose, Geraldine, Mr. Dolbiac, and three others. Mrs. Ashton Portway sat down by Henry as a jurywoman.
Ashton Portway sailed off to receive other guests, and Henry was alone with Miss Marchrose in a nook between a cabinet and a phonograph. Many eyes were upon them. Miss Marchrose, a woman of thirty, with a thin face and an amorphous body draped in two shades of olive, was obviously flattered. 'Be frank, and admit you've never heard of me, she said. 'Oh yes, I have, he lied.
'And now what are you going to discuss? said she. No one could find a topic. 'Let us discuss love, Miss Marchrose ventured. 'Yes, said Mr. Dolbiac, 'let's. There's nothing like leather. So the seven in the centre of the room assumed attitudes suitable for the discussion of love. 'Have you all chosen your characters? asked the hostess. 'We have, replied the seven. 'Then begin.
The discussion proceeded under difficulties, for no one was loquacious except Mr. Dolbiac, and all Mr. Dolbiac's utterances were staccato and senseless. The game had had several narrow escapes of extinction, when Miss Marchrose galvanized it by means of a long and serious monologue treating of the sorts of man with whom a self-respecting woman will never fall in love.
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