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Updated: May 11, 2025
"You must tell me why also?" "I can do nothing of the kind. He knows the Duke." The Duke with the Trefoils always meant the Duke of Mayfair who was Arabella's ducal uncle. "Intimately?" "Well enough to go there. There is to be a great shooting at Mistletoe," Mistletoe was the Duke's place, "in January. I got that from him, and he can go if he likes.
"I believe it's some place near Monte Carlo, sir. Her ladyship gave orders that no letters were to be forwarded for the present." "Thank you." Craven turned away and walked slowly towards Mayfair. He felt startled and hurt, even angry. So this was friendship!
Abandoning the frivolities of Mayfair, she went to Girton, where she plunged into the study of Sanscrit. After leaving Girton, she applied herself to the study of the occult side of Theosophy.
Here was a man compelled to lie outrageously who, in happier years, had prided himself on scrupulous accuracy even in small things. "Plague upon it!" he silently protested. "Subterfuge and deceit are as much at home in this deserted island as in Mayfair." "I found it here, Miss Deane," he answered. Luckily she interpreted "here" as applying to the cave. "Let me see it. May I?"
It is easy to laugh at all that ensued when first the mummers and the stainers of canvas strayed into Mayfair. Yet shall I laugh? For me the most romantic moment of a pantomime is always when the winged and wired fairies begin to fade away, and, as they fade, clown and pantaloon tumble on joppling and grimacing, seen very faintly in that indecisive twilight.
She had at least the reputation of going everywhere, and did go to a great many places. Carbuncle had no money, so it was said; and she had none. She was the daughter of a man who had gone to New York and had failed there. Of her own parentage no more was known. She had a small house in one of the very small Mayfair streets, to which she was wont to invite her friends for five o'clock tea.
It would be far from dazzling to exchange Mayfair for Chalk Farm, and it wore upon her much that he could never drop a subject; still, it didn't wear as things had worn, the worries of the early times of their great misery, her own, her mother's and her elder sister's the last of whom had succumbed to all but absolute want when, as conscious and incredulous ladies, suddenly bereft, betrayed, overwhelmed, they had slipped faster and faster down the steep slope at the bottom of which she alone had rebounded.
So with little care and less love his childhood passed until presently he went with his father and mother, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley, to London, to their new home in Curzon Street, Mayfair. There little Rawdon's time was mostly spent hidden upstairs in a garret somewhere, or crawling below into the kitchen for companionship. His mother scarcely ever took notice of him.
She had returned not long ago to London, where she had decided not to live in the house in Mayfair, and had bought a smaller one in the Hampstead neighborhood; also, he understood, one somewhere in the country. She was said to go but little into society. "And all the good hard dollars just waiting for someone to spraddle them around!" said Mr. Bunner with a note of pathos in his voice.
She denounced the ways, the viands, the brigand's prices of English fournisseurs, but it seemed to Julie, all the same, that she handled them with a Napoleonic success. She bought as the French poor buy, so far as the West End would let her, and Julie had soon perceived that their expenditure, even in this heart of Mayfair, would be incredibly small.
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