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Updated: June 16, 2025
Naida intervened eagerly. "Because I left him there half an hour ago," was the tremulous reply. There is in the Anglo-Saxon temperament an almost feverish desire to break away from any condition of strain, a sort of shamefaced impulse to discard emotionalism.
Room had to be made somehow; Geraldine and Naïda Mallett doubled up; twin beds were installed for Dysart and Bunny Gray; Rosalie took in Sylvia Quest with a shrug, disdaining any emotion, even curiosity, concerning the motherless girl whose imprudences with Jack Dysart had furnished gossip sufficient to last over from the winter.
His step was buoyant, almost jaunty, yet in his blue eyes, as he bent over the hand of the woman upon whom he had come to call, lurked something of the disquietude which, notwithstanding his most strenuous efforts, was beginning to assert itself. "You make me very happy, my dear Naida," he began, "that you receive me thus so informally. Your good father is smoking in the lounge.
Naida leaned back in her chair and fanned herself slowly. "No one I know very much about," she acknowledged. "I have selected him in my mind, however as being a typical Englishman of his class. I wish to talk to him, to appreciate his point of view. You know what Paul said when he gave you the appointment and sent us over here: 'Find out for me what sort of men these Englishmen are."
"All our friends seem to be here to-night," the Prince remarked, glancing around. "I saw Naida with her father and the eternal Oscar Immelan. Chalmers is here with an exceedingly gay party, and yonder sits his Imperial Highness, looking very much the barbaric prince. By the by," he added, glancing towards Maggie, "I thought that he was not coming?"
He forgot all about his country's peril. Life and its possibilities seemed somehow all different. He was carried away by a rare wave of emotion. "Naida!" he whispered. "Yes?" Her eyes were soft and expectant. Something of the gravity had gone from her face. She was like a girl, suddenly young with new thoughts. "You know what I am going to say to you?" "Do not say it yet, please," she begged.
"You think I'm a molly?" asked Scott in a curiously still voice. "Yes, I do." "Oh, Scott!" cried Geraldine, pushing in between them, "you'll have to hammer him well for that " Naïda turned and shoved her brother aside: "I don't want you to fight him," she said. "I like him." "Oh, but they must fight, you know," explained Geraldine earnestly. "If we didn't fight, we'd really be what you call us.
Again there was a brief silence. The minds of all three of them were busy with the same thought. Prince Shan's word had been spoken and Immelan's hopes dashed to the ground, and within a few hours, this murder! They nursed the thought, but no one put it into words. A sleepy-eyed porter opened the door of the car outside the Milan Court. Naida gathered herself together with a little shiver.
"Her father is the dark, broad-shouldered man with the square beard," he indicated. "Immelan, as you can see, is the third. They are coming this way. We will speak of them afterwards." Naida, with her father and Oscar Immelan, left some acquaintances with whom they had been talking and, preceded by a maître d'hôtel, moved in the direction of the two men.
She extended her slim limbs and crossed her feet. Lying still there in the sunshine, arms crooked behind her head, she gazed straight out ahead. Light breezes lifted her soft bright hair; the same zephyrs bore from tennis courts on the east the far laughter and calling of the unseen players. "Who are they?" she inquired. "The Pink 'uns, Naïda, and Jack Dysart.
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