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Updated: May 28, 2025
She had the same appearance of imminent apoplexy, the same air of belonging to some dignified and haughty branch of the vegetable kingdom. "Mr. Marson, welcome to Blandings Castle!" Ashe had been waiting for somebody to say this, and had been a little surprised that Mr. Beach had not done so.
"It's no more ridiculous than that I should do the same. Mr. Marson, there's no use in our going over all this again. We settled it long ago." Joan refused to discuss the matter further, leaving Ashe in a condition of anxious misery comparable only to that which, as night began to draw near, gnawed the vitals of the Efficient Baxter. Breakfast at Blandings Castle was an informal meal.
Then the King came forth, and Jack o' the Tofts and his sons, and Oliver Marson, and the captains of Brimside; and the host was blown together to the market-place, and there was a new tale of them taken, and they were now hard on seventy hundreds of men.
But Freddie's view of the matter seemed to be that he had done all that could be expected of a chappie in getting engaged to the girl, and that now he might consider himself at liberty to drop her for a while. So Baxter, as he bicycled to Market Blandings for tobacco, brooded on Freddie, Aline Peters and George Emerson. He also brooded on Mr. Peters and Ashe Marson.
Freddie searched in his mind again. The deputation held its breath. "Well, I'm blowed!" said Freddie. "Fancy that!" Mr. Peters walked heavily into his room. Ashe Marson was waiting for him there. He eyed Ashe dully. "Pack!" he said. "Pack?" "Pack! We're getting out of here by the afternoon train." "Has anything happened?" "My daughter has eloped with Emerson." "What!"
Bell tell you my name? By the way, you have not been here long, have you?" "I took my room day before yesterday. But your name, if you are the author of Gridley Quayle, is Felix Clovelly, isn't it?" "Good heavens, no! Surely you don't think anyone's name could really be Felix Clovelly? That is only the cloak under which I hide my shame. My real name is Marson Ashe Marson. And yours?"
Snatch at the next chance, whatever it is." Ashe nodded. "Continue," he said. "Proceed. You are stimulating me." "But why should you want a girl like me to stimulate you? Surely London is enough to do it without my help? You can always find something new, surely? Listen, Mr. Marson. I was thrown on my own resources about five years ago never mind how.
"You must have had a cold ride, Mr. Marson. The wind is in the east." Ashe said yes; the ride had been cold. "When the wind is in the east," continued Mr. Beach, letting each syllable escape with apparent reluctance, "I suffer from my feet." "I beg your pardon?" "I suffer from my feet," repeated the butler, measuring out the drops. "You are a young man, Mr. Marson.
"But you haven't read the advertisement pages? Read them. They may contain just the opening you want." "Well, I'll do it; but my experience of advertisement pages is that they are monopolized by philanthropists who want to lend you any sum from ten to a hundred thousand pounds on your note of hand only. However, I will scan them." Joan rose and held out her hand. "Good-by, Mr. Marson.
Baxter will dare to stir from his bed after that? If ever there was a chance of getting this thing finished, it will be to-night." "You're quite right. I never looked at it in that way. Baxter wouldn't risk a second disaster. I'll certainly make a success of it this time." Joan raised her eyebrows. "I don't quite understand you, Mr. Marson. Do you propose to try to get the scarab to-night?" "Yes.
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