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Updated: May 17, 2025
But you couldn't have expected her to think of that while she held him, quivering, in her arms. Love and the World When the society editor of "America's foremost newspaper," as in its trademark it proclaims itself to be, announced that the Rodney Aldriches had taken the Allison McCreas' house, furnished, for a year, beginning in October, she spoke of it as an ideal arrangement.
"I was thinking," she said, "of the awful disgrace I got into yesterday, with somebody well, with Bertram Willis, by saying something like that. I'll have to tell you about it." Bertram Willis, it should be said, was the young architect with the upturned mustaches and the soft Byronic collars, who had done the house for the McCreas.
I've an income from my investments of from twenty-five to thirty thousand a year that we could live on, and not do a blessed thing but be husband and wife to each other. Like the McCreas. But it wouldn't work. You've got to be what you are, that's the point, and somehow or other, cut your life to fit. I expect that's one of the things that's been the trouble with us down here.
"Only, with all his money, after the way he's talked about that house the way he's damned it and made fun of it, what did he want to go and buy it for?" Constance had an idea he'd got it at a bargain. The McCreas had made a flying trip home just to sell it.
And when he did that ...! None of the speculative explanations Rodney's friends advanced for his having bought that precious solemn house of the McCreas, together with all its rarified esthetic furniture, exactly covered the ground. He didn't buy it in the expectation that Rose was coming back to live in it, and still less with the even remote notion of finding a successor to her.
The period furniture was accurate almost to the minute, and the arrangement of it, the color schemes and the lighting, had at once the finality of perfection and the perfection of finality. If you happened to like that sort of thing, it was precisely the sort of thing you'd like. The same sort of neat, fully acquired perfection characterized the McCreas' domestic arrangements.
Yes, the skin was sold, but the agent had not yet sent the cash. It had brought $430 and the half would come along as soon as ever Monsieur Baillot forwarded the notes. But the winter again went by and no notes, no letters, or other news ever reached Malcolm McCrea. Six years passed, and still they never came, and the McCreas supposed the debt was time-barred.
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