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Updated: May 16, 2025
Morewood's letter told him that Stafford had set out to go to Claudia. What if he and Eugene met? Ayre had not much faith in the power of friendship under such circumstances. "I think, on the whole, that I'd better show you a letter I've had," he said. "Mind you, I take no responsibility for what you do." "Nobody wants you to," said Eugene, with a smile. "We all understand that's your position."
But on trying it on my head, I found it fell down on my ears, notwithstanding their asinine length for it's only such ears that sustain such crowns. Your letter was handed me last night on the road going to Mr. Morewood's, and I read it there. Had I been at home, I would have sat down at once and answered it. In me divine magnanimities are spontaneous and instantaneous catch them while you can.
The sight of his own face, interpreted with all Morewood's penetrating insight and mastery of hand, had been a revelation to him. No more mercilessly candid messenger could have been found. Arguments he would have resisted or confuted; appeals to his own consciousness would have failed for want of experience; he could not affect to disbelieve the verdict of his own countenance.
"That's not the only thing with you." "No, it isn't," he replied, a little surprised. "I feel rather responsible for it all, you know. I was at the bottom of Morewood's showing you that picture." "It must have dawned on me sooner of later." "I don't know. But, yes I expect so. You're hard hit." Stafford smiled. "Hard hit about her; and harder hit because it was a plunge to go into it at all."
Seeing the matter in this light, Dick was dumb before Morewood's challenge to him to say, if he dared, that he hoped a long life for Alexander Quisanté.
Here was the state of things which extorted from Morewood the blunt wish that Quisanté might die. Such a desire was hardly cruel to the man himself, since he must now lose all that he had loved best in the market of the world; but it was not the man himself who had been most in Morewood's thoughts.
She would not have complained if Quisanté had followed Morewood's example and taken no notice of it. He stopped, turned to her with exaggerated deference, and greeted her obvious little carrying out of the metaphor as though it were a heaven-sent light. Somehow in doing this he seemed to fall all in an instant from lofty heights to depths almost beyond eyesight.
Morewood's Masterpiece. About a fortnight later than the last recorded incident two men were smoking on the lawn at Millstead Manor. One was Morewood; the other had arrived only the day before and was the Sir Roderick Ayre to whom reference has been made. "Upon my word, Morewood," said Sir Roderick, as the painter sat down by him, "one can't go anywhere without meeting you!"
He's only been stirring up old Morewood's dormant piety." He lit his cigar, and sat pondering the letter. "Shall I try to stop him? If Claudia and Eugene have fixed up things it would be charitable to prevent him making a fool of himself. Why the deuce haven't I heard anything from that young rascal? Hullo! who's that?" He heard a voice outside, and the next moment Eugene himself rushed in.
She smiled slightly and turned to Jimmy Benyon who was by her, as though to speak to him; but Morewood's voice cut across her remark. "No, I'm not. I'm a sceptic there," he said. "Oh, well, you don't know anything about it," Dick assured him placidly. If plain-speaking were the order of the day, the Benyon family could hold their own. "I bet he hasn't read the prospectus," said Jimmy.
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