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Updated: June 25, 2025
Professor Moorsom coming up from the garden with a book under his arm and a white parasol held over his bare head, found him there and, closing the parasol, leaned over by his side with a remark on the increasing heat of the season.
The professor stepping into the boat opened his parasol and sat down in the stern-sheets waiting for the ladies. No sound of human voice broke the fresh silence of the morning while they walked the broad path, Miss Moorsom a little in advance of her aunt. When she came abreast of him Renouard raised his head. "Good-bye, Mr.
Miss Moorsom seized his wrist suddenly, and at that contact fire ran through all his veins, a hot stillness descended upon him in which he heard the blood or the fire beating in his ears. He made a movement as if to rise, but was restrained by the convulsive pressure on his wrist. "No, no." Miss Moorsom's eyes stared black as night, searching the space before her. "The innocent Arthur . . . Yes.
As before, when grappling with other forces of nature, he could find in himself all sorts of courage except the courage to run away. It was perhaps from the lack of subjects they could have in common that Miss Moorsom made him so often speak of his own life. He did not shrink from talking about himself, for he was free from that exacerbated, timid vanity which seals so many vain-glorious lips.
Thereupon the professor followed by Renouard joined the circle of all the inmates of the house assembled at the other end of the terrace about a tea-table; three white heads and that resplendent vision of woman's glory, the sight of which had the power to flutter his heart like a reminder of the mortality of his frame. He avoided the seat by the side of Miss Moorsom.
When he had got the first tube floated at Conway, and saw all safe, he said to Captain Moorsom, “Now I shall go to bed.” But the Britannia Bridge was a still more difficult enterprise, and cost him many a sleepless night. Afterwards describing his feelings to his friend Mr. Gooch, he said: “It was a most anxious and harassing time with me.
A silence fell, and it was as if Renouard were not going to say anything more when, suddenly, he came out with the real object of his visit to the editorial room. "They looked to me like people under a spell." "You omitted to tell me their name, but I can make a guess. You mean Professor Moorsom, his daughter and sister don't you?" Renouard assented. Yes, a white-haired lady.
Renouard disengaged himself from that most perfidious of men under the pretence of astonishment, and stepping back a pace "Surely you are making fun of me, Professor Moorsom," he said with a low laugh, which was really a sound of rage. "My dear young friend! It's no subject for jokes, to me. . . You don't seem to have any notion of your prestige," he added, walking away towards the chairs.
But here's that old woman the butler's wife listen to this. She writes: All I can tell you, Miss, is that my poor husband directed his letters to the name of H. Walter." Renouard's violent but repressed exclamation was lost in a general murmur and shuffle of feet. "Miss Moorsom, allow me to congratulate you from the bottom of my heart on the happy er issue. . . "
I shall haunt you," he said firmly. Her hand was wrenched out of his grasp before he had time to release it. Felicia Moorsom stepped into the boat, sat down by the side of her father, and breathed tenderly on her crushed fingers. The professor gave her a sidelong look nothing more. But the professor's sister, yet on shore, had put up her long-handle double eye-glass to look at the scene.
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