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Ben Jonson's Underwoods with his own corrections; a presentation copy of Andrew Marvell's Poems, with autograph notes; manuscript volumes of letters, containing almost every famous name known to English literature in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the literary cream, in fact, of all the vast collection which filled the muniment room upstairs; books which had belonged to Addison, to Sir William Temple, to Swift, to Horace Walpole; the first four folios of Shakespeare, all perfect, and most of the quartos everything that the heart of the English collector could most desire was there.
He seemed indeed to be pitting his own influence against Miss Marvell's, and in his modest way, yet consciously, to be taking Delia in hand, and endeavouring to alter her outlook on life; clearing away, so far as he could, the atmosphere of angry, hearsay propaganda in which she had spent her recent years, and trying to bring her face to face with the deeper loves and duties and sorrows which she in her headstrong youth knew so little about, while they entered so profoundly into his own upright and humane character.
He came now to report what had been done, and to ask if the meetings should be continued. Gertrude Marvell shook her head. "I have had some letters about your meetings. I doubt whether they have been worth while." Miss Marvell's manner was that of an employer to an employee. Lathrop's vanity winced. "May I know what was wrong with them?" Gertrude Marvell considered.
If you're going to do real work, you can't afford to spend your time or thoughts on doing up a shabby house." There was silence a moment. Then Delia said abruptly "I wonder when that man will turn up? What a fool he is to take it on!" "The guardianship? Yes, he hardly knows what he's in for." A touch of grim amusement shewed itself for a moment in Miss Marvell's quiet face.
I should have grown like Marvell's fawn, "Lilies without; roses within!" But then, he added, we all think, IF so and so, we should have been this or that, as you were saying the other day, in those rhymes of yours.
We who cannot stand firm within two lines, but must slip beyond and between the boundaries, who tolerate the couplets of Keats and imitate them, should praise the day of Charles II because of Marvell's art, and not for love of the sorry reign.
We who cannot stand firm within two lines, but must slip beyond and between the boundaries, who tolerate the couplets of Keats and imitate them, should praise the day of Charles II because of Marvell's art, and not for love of the sorry reign.
Marvell's tone was always so light, so unemphasized, that she could not be sure of its being as indifferent as it sounded. She looked down at the fruit on her plate and shot a side-glance through her lashes at Mrs. Peter Van Degen. Mrs. Van Degen was neither beautiful nor imposing: just a dark girlish-looking creature with plaintive eyes and a fidgety frequent laugh.
She might as well have married Millard Binch, instead of handing him over to Indiana Frusk! Couldn't her father understand that nice girls, in New York, didn't regard getting married like going on a buggy-ride? It was enough to ruin a girl's chances if she broke her engagement to a man in Ralph Marvell's set.
Van Degen putting on her cloak. As she gathered it about her she laid her hand on Marvell's arm. "Ralphie, dear, you'll come to the opera with me on Friday? We'll dine together first Peter's got a club dinner." They exchanged what seemed a smile of intelligence, and Undine heard the young man accept. Then Mrs. Van Degen turned to her. "Good-bye, Miss Spragg. I hope you'll come "
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