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Updated: May 29, 2025
"You say," he continued, "that you will make amends for your unfair dealing. If you mean it, take the only course that shows itself. Confess to Narramore what you have done; you owe it to him as much as to me." "I can't do that," said Eve, drawing away. "It's for you to tell him if you like." "No. I had my opportunity, and let it pass.
I didn't in the least know who it could be, and I was surprised to see rather a good-looking girl not exactly a lady tallish, and with fine dark eyes what did you say?" "Nothing." "A twinge of gout?" "Go on." Narramore scrutinised his friend, who spoke in an unusual tone. "She sat down, and began to tell me that she was out of work wanted a place as a bookkeeper, or something of the kind.
Birching, encouraged by his progress and looking forward as hopefully as a not very sanguine temperament would allow. He lived penuriously, and toiled at professional study night as well as day. Now and then he passed an evening with Robert Narramore, who had moved to cozy bachelor quarters a little distance out of town, in the Halesowen direction. Once a week, generally on Saturday, he saw Eve.
There before him stood Eve. He had only just persuaded himself of her identity; his eyes searched her countenance with wonder which barely allowed him to assume a becoming attitude. But Mrs. Narramore was perfect in society's drill. She smiled very sweetly, gave her hand, said what the occasion demanded. Among the women present all well bred she suffered no obscurement.
"It never occurred to me to blame you for not writing," Eve quickly replied; "I'm afraid you are more sensitive than I am, and, to tell the truth, I believe men generally are more sensitive than women in things of this kind. It pleased me very much to hear of the visit you had had from Mr. Narramore, and that he had cheered you.
Impossible to foresee my state of mind after living humanly for a year or two. And what shall you do if you come in for a lot of money?" "It's not likely to be more than a few thousands," replied Narramore. "And the chances are I shall go on in the old way. What's the good of a few thousands? I haven't the energy to go off and enjoy myself in your fashion.
"Yes, I was rather afraid of that," said Narramore musingly. He let a minute elapse, whilst his friend paced the room; then added in the same voice: "We're in luck at the same tune. My uncle Sol was found dead this morning." "Do you come in for much?" "We don't know what he's left, but I'm down for a substantial fraction in a will he made three years ago.
Tell the truth, and be hanged to you! Is she the kind of a girl a man may marry?" "For all I know." "Do you suspect her?" Narramore urged fiercely. "She'll marry a rich man rather than a poor one that's the worst I think of her." "What woman won't?" When question and answer had revolved about this point for another quarter of an hour, Hilliard brought the dialogue to an end.
It's wretched going about with a headache, and I can't make believe to enjoy Birmingham." Eve spoke hurriedly, still regarding Hilliard, who looked upon the ground. "Have you been alone all day?" he asked, taking the outer place at her side, as they walked on. "Of course except for the people in the house," was her offhand reply. "I met Narramore down at the station; he must have passed you.
With surprise and pleasure Hilliard read the name of Robert Narramore, and beneath it, written in pencil, an invitation to dine that evening at a certain hotel in the Rue de Provence. As usual, Narramore had neglected the duties of a correspondent; this was the first announcement of his intention to be in Paris. Who the second man might be Hilliard could not conjecture.
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