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Updated: May 13, 2025
So he kept his attendant by his side, and regaled him for some time with a series of improbable reminiscences and tolerable cigars, till at last, round a bend of the avenue, a lady on horseback came into view. As she drew a little nearer he stopped with an air of great surprise and pleasure. “I believe, Moggridge, that must be Lady Alicia
Invaluable Mr. Moggridge! What were truth without you! The poet, on his part, guaranteed to supply all the poetry that might be required, and indeed agreed to do special rhyming advertisements, at, say, half a guinea apiece.
“Would you accept——?” she began, timidly. “What day?” he interrupted, hurriedly. “Tuesday,” she hesitated. “Four o’clock, again. Same place as before. When I whistle throw it over at once.” Before they had time to say more, Moggridge, blood- and gravel-stained, came up. “It’s all right, miss,” he said, coming between them; “I’ll see that he plays no more of ’is tricks.
Then a figure moved carefully from the shelter of a bush a little way down the railings, and, after a quick look at the house, stepped back again. “He means to play the waiting game,” said Mr Bunker to himself. “Long may you wait, my wary Moggridge!” He took a rapid survey of the room.
Moggridge wouldn't have so described it, it was the "New Spirit" that had made the success of his provision shop. Speaking of the need of New Zion, Mr. Moggridge called it "new blood." He meant the "New Spirit;" and it was in reply to his advertisement for a new pastor, that the "New Spirit" in the person of Theophilus Londonderry came one Sunday to preach at New Zion.
When he was at school, Jimmy Moggridge smoked a cane chair, and he has since said that from cane to ordinary mixtures was not so noticeable as the change from ordinary mixtures to the Arcadia. I ask no one to believe this, for the confirmed smoker in Arcadia detests arguing with anybody about anything.
But his passion? Roses and his wife a retired hospital nurse interesting for God's sake let me have one woman with a name I like! But no; she's of the unborn children of the mind, illicit, none the less loved, like my rhododendrons. How many die in every novel that's written the best, the dearest, while Moggridge lives. It's life's fault.
Towards four o’clock on the following afternoon Mr Beveridge and Moggridge were walking leisurely down the long drive leading from the mansion of Clankwood to the gate that opened on the humdrum outer world. Finding that an inelastic matter of yards was all the tether he could hope for, Mr Beveridge thought it best to take the bull by the horns, and make a companion of this necessity.
It is not without merit; but I consider art such an important subject that I mean to deal with it exclusively myself. With thanks for kindly appreciation of my new venture, I am yours faithfully, J. MOGGRIDGE, Ed. Universal Review. To John Morley, Esq., Smith Street, Blackwall.
He stepped in, and the door banged behind him. “This w’y, sir,” said the maid, and Mr Bunker found himself in the little room where this story opened. The moment he was alone he went to the window and peeped cautiously between the slats of the venetian blind. The street was quiet, both cabs had disappeared, and for a minute or two he could see nothing even of Moggridge.
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