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Updated: June 7, 2025
He coloured indeed now, when Lord Evelyn said "Like it?" coloured and murmured indistinguishable comments into his collar. He coloured most when Lord Evelyn said, as he frequently did, "Your brother's find. A delicious little man in some sotto-portico or other quite an admirable person. Eh, Margerison?" Hilary in the background would vaguely assent.
Bridger, "we ought to have some champagne to drink success to the happy event. Short of that, let us fill the festive bumpers with the flowing lemonade. Pass the jug down. Here's to you, Miss Rhoda; here's to you, Mr. Peter Margerison. May you both be as happy as you deserve. No one will want me to wish you anything better than that, I'm sure." "Here's luck, you dears," said Peggy, drinking.
The grunt element was presumably for Peggy Margerison, the chuckle for Punch. Lord Evelyn, tapping his eye-glass on the arm of his chair, said, "Well? Well?" impatiently, nervously. It was a long letter on crinkly paper, written in a large, dashing, sprawling hand, full of curls, generosities, extravagances. "I somehow thought that would be what she said," Denis murmured, still half preoccupied.
But one manages to enjoy life even without it, so don't overwork. And come and see my toys again by daylight, and try to enthuse a little more over them next time. You're too young to be blasé. You'd better read the Gem, to encourage yourself in simple pleasures. Good-night. Good-night, Margerison."
He had also been pleased by his pluck; hence the pleasant expression of his eyes. He was a little touched, too, by the unmistakable admiration in the over-bright blue regard. Urquhart was not unused to admiration; but here was something very whole-hearted and rather pleasing. Margerison seemed rather a nice little kid.
The Palazzo Amadeo is a dilapidated palace looking onto the Rio delle Beccarie; it is let in flats to the poor; and in the sea-story suite of the great, bare, dingy, gilded rooms lived Hilary and Peggy Margerison, and three disreputable infants who insisted on bathing in the canals, and the boarders. The boarders were at the moment six in number; Peter made seven.
Peter would have understood the love; the thing he would not have understood was the feeling that had flung her on the tide of reaction at Mr. Margerison's feet. Mr. Margerison was a hard liver and a tremendous giver. Both these things had come to mean a great deal to Sylvia Urquhart much more than they had meant to the girl Sylvia Hope.
One could get a much better one nearly as cheap at a restaurant. Miss Barnett, with an air of wishing to find out how bad a fool Peter was, leaned across Mrs. Johnson and said, "What are you to Venice, Mr. Margerison, and Venice to you? What, I mean, are you going to get out of her? Which of her aspects do you especially approach? She has so infinitely many, you know.
Peter never expected it. But a few days after that, Peter came into the lavatories and found Urquhart there, and Urquhart looked round and said, "I say, you Margerison. Just cut down to the field and bring my cap. You'll find it by the far goal, Smithson's ground. You can bring it to the lavatories and hang it on my peg. Cut along quick, or you'll be late."
When, indeed, it might have been asked, did any of the Margerison family take their rest? No one of them ever felt or expressed any surprise at finding any other awake and active at any hour of the night. Peggy looked at her three male infants with her maternal serenity touched with mirth.
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