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Updated: June 23, 2025
There was a little pause, during which Miss Mazerod glanced in the direction of the younger man, who had been detained by a stout lady with a purple dress and a depressed daughter. "I should like to know him," said Dora. "Nothing easier," replied her cousin, still absorbed in the fan. "I know him quite well." "He is looking at you now."
Miss Mazerod was looking at the mechanism of her fan with a demure expression on lips shaped for happiness. A dark young man was elbowing his way through the mixed crowd towards them. "What is his name?" asked Dora, who was still looking at the man with a purpose. "General Seymour Michael." "The Indian man?" "Yes."
Miss Mazerod looked up and bowed with a little jerk, as if she felt too young to be stately; one of those bows that say "Come here." At this moment the younger man came up and shook hands effusively with Dora, slowly with Miss Mazerod. "Jack," said that young lady, "I have just beamed on General Michael, who is behind you. I want to introduce him to Dora."
She had come to London with the purpose of leaving Dora there under the care of her sister Lady Mazerod, and before she had talked to that amiable widow for half an hour the design was as apparent as if it had been spoken. In due course Dora and Miss Mazerod renewed a childish love, and at the end of April Mr. And Mrs. Glynde went back to Stagholme alone. It is probable that neither Mrs.
They were now coming round by the pigeon-shooting enclosure, and the strains of the band announced that the interval for tea had elapsed. In the distance Lady Mazerod and Edith, attended by the indefatigable Jack, were keeping a chair for Dora. She slackened her pace. To her the knowledge had come that the difficulties of life have usually to be met single-handed.
He is, as a matter of fact, the scion of a noble house, who models in clay atrociously." "And the gorgeous person he is turning his back upon?" "One of his models." "Of clay?" "Essentially so." And Miss Mazerod broke off into a happy laugh. Hers was not the bitterness of plainness or insignificance, but something infinitely more suggestive.
The reception accorded him was not exactly enthusiastic. Having in view the fact that the young man called Jack was entirely satisfactory, Lady Mazerod treated all other young men with indifference. Edith despised Arthur Agar because Jack was athletic in his tendencies; and Dora was sorry to see him, because she had not answered his three last letters.
There was a little pause, during which they both watched the self-satisfied throng moving in and out, here and there, full of a restless desire to be observed. It was Seymour Michael who spoke first. True to his mixed blood, he sought to make himself safe. "Excuse me," he said, "but Edith Mazerod did not mention your name; may I ask it?" "Dora Glynde!" She saw him start.
Altogether life was too complicated, subtle, difficult, hopeless, when Edith Mazerod came into it, and by her presence seemed to clear the atmosphere of daily existence. At first the constant round of visiting and gaiety was a supreme effort; then came tolerance, and finally that business-like acceptance which is mistaken by many for enjoyment.
He stood upright, drawing himself up with ironical emphasis, as if to show as plainly as possible that there were many years of life and work in him yet. Edith Mazerod laughed, the careless passing laugh of inattention. "Dora," she said, "may I introduce General Michael? My cousin." She rose, and Seymour Michael prepared to take the vacant seat.
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