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Updated: May 7, 2025
It had rained all the morning and then had cleared up gloriously fine, and they had sat down on a bank under the trees, and Mirko had played divinely all sorts of gay airs. But when he got up he had shivered a little, and Mimo could see that his clothes were wet, and then the rain had come on immediately again, and he had made him run back.
And who knows but Mirko might grow into a great artist one day! This possible picture she painted in glowing colors until the child's pathetic, dark eyes glistened with pleasure. Then she became practical; they must change their lodging and find a better one. But here Mimo interfered. They were really very comfortable where they were, he urged, humble though it looked, and changing was unpleasant.
"The Apache," which had not yet found a purchaser, stood on one easel, and from it the traveling rug hung to the other, concealing all unsightly things, and yesterday Mimo had bought from the Tottenham Court Road a cheap basket armchair with bright cretonne cushions. And really, with the flowers and the blazing fire when they sat down to tea it all looked very cozy and home-like.
He looked at Mimo and saw that the man's lips were muttering a prayer, and that he had drawn a little silver crucifix from his coat pocket, and, also, that he was unconscious of any surroundings, for his face was rapt; and he stepped close to him and heard him murmur, in his well-pronounced English, "Mary, Mother of God, pray for her, and bring her happiness!"
It was there above her, over the Park, so she turned out the lights, and, putting her furs around her, she sat for a while and gazed above the treetops, while she repeated her prayers. And Mimo saw her, as he stood in the shadow on the pavement at the other side of Park Lane. He had come there in his sentimental way, to give her his blessing, and had been standing looking up for some time.
He came in the night, all alone, ill with fever, to find his father, and he broke a blood vessel this morning, and died in my arms there, in the poor lodging." Francis Markrute had drawn her to the sofa now, and stroked her hands. He was deeply moved. "My poor, dear child! My poor Zara!" he said. Then, with most pathetic entreaty she went on, "Oh, Uncle Francis, can't you forgive poor Mimo, now?
As she sped along in the taxi her uncle had placed one of his several motors at her disposal, but it was not for such localities she argued with herself that it would be wiser not to give Mimo all the money at once.
If only Mirko would consent to be parted from his fond and irresponsible parent for a time it would be so much better for his health, and his chance of becoming of some use in the world. Mimo always meant so kindly and behaved so foolishly!
They are here in London now he and his father in a very poor place." "I have thought it all out," Francis Markrute answered while he frowned, as he always did, at the mention of Mimo. "There is a wonderfully clever doctor at Bournemouth where the air is perfect for those delicate in the lungs.
Here Mimo and Mirko would join her, and while they painted and played, she would read. Her whole inner life was spent with books. Among the shady society her husband had frequented she had been known as "The Stone." She never unbent, and while her beauty and extraordinary type attracted all the men she came across they soon gave up their pursuit.
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