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Updated: May 23, 2025
He was very much in earnest, thoroughly aroused by what seemed to be a direct insinuation. "Oh, don't be stupid," she cried. "Good heavens, can there be a scandal in that lovely woman's life?" "There's never any scandal in a woman's life unless she's reasonably lovely," remarked he. "Whose child is she, if she isn't Medcroft's?" she pursued with a perplexed frown.
However that may be, it was Katherine Rodney, pretty, plump, and spoiled, who pulled the first stone from the foundation of Medcroft's house of cards. Katherine had convinced herself that she was deeply enamoured of the volatile Freddie; the more she thought that she loved him, the greater became the conviction that he did not care as much for her as he professed.
"Roxbury and I didn't have our first quarrel until we'd been married a year," said Edith reflectively. "Oh, I say, Edith," exclaimed Brock, with a dark frown, "I'd rather you wouldn't be forever extolling the good qualities of my predecessor. It's very bad taste. Very much like the pies mother used to make." "Silly!" cried Medcroft's wife, now in fine humour. "Besides, Rox is an Englishman.
Do tell me what's the matter?" "Isn't this Mr. Medcroft's room?" "Ye-es but he isn't in. He objects to the noise. Oh, has anything happened to Roxbury?" She was standing just inside the door, and her voice betrayed agitation. "My dear Edith, don't get excited. I have a telegram from " She uttered a shriek. "He's been assassinated! Oh, Roxbury!" "What the dev Are you crazy? It's a telegram from "
At that writing it looked as though the bill would be overthrown, its promoters had been so completely put to rout. The committee would be compelled to take cognisance of the startling exposure the people would demand a full threshing out of the obnoxious deal. Roxbury Medcroft's name was on every one's lips. The Standard had profited by securing a great "beat."
In no little dismay, he found himself wondering if the whole of Paris was going away or, on the other hand, if the rest of the continent was arriving. He felt a fool in Medcroft's unspeakable checked suit; and the eyeglass was a much more obstinate, untractable thing than he had even suspected it could be.
He glared hard at Brock; the Rodneys saw signs of disaster. "Oh, by Jove, are you the fellow who put those new windows in the Chaucer Memorial Hall? 'Pon me soul! Are you the man who did that?" There was no mistaking his manner; he was distinctly annoyed. Brock faced the storm coolly, for his friend Medcroft's sake. "I am Roxbury Medcroft, if that's what you mean, Mr. Odell-Carney."
Constance proposed, in the goodness of her heart, to give up to Brock her own room, adjoining that of her sister, provided Edith would take her in to sleep with her. Edith was perfectly willing, but interposed the sage conclusion that gossiping menials might not appreciate a preference so unique. Mr. Roxbury Medcroft's sky parlour adjoined the elevator shaft.
He consciously adjusted his eyeglass for a hasty glance about in search of the easily disturbed Mr. Rodney. Then, to Mrs. Rodney, his mind a blank after a passing glimpse of Constance and her escort: "Aw er a perfectly jolly opera, isn't it?" The next morning, bright and early, Mr. Alfred Rodney, a telegram in his hand, charged down the hall to Mrs. Medcroft's door.
As they entered the comfortable little sitting-room of the suite, a young woman rose gracefully from the desk at which she had been writing. With perfect composure she smiled and extended her slim hand to the American as he crossed the room with Medcroft's jerky introduction dinging in his ears. "My old friend Brock, dear. He has consented to be your husband.
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