Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 29, 2025
Might but the morrow bring him a letter from London! It brought nothing; and day after day disappointed him. More than a week passed: he was ill with suspense, but could take no step for setting his mind at rest. Then, as he sat one morning at his work in the architect's office, there arrived a telegram addressed to him "I must see you as soon as possible. Be here before six. Narramore."
The night that followed plagued him with other misgivings. It seemed more probable now that she had threatened what she would never have the courage to perform. She meant it at the moment it declared a truth but an hour after she would listen to commonplace morality or prudence. Narramore would write to her; she might, perhaps, see him again. She would cling to the baser hope.
Just outside Hilliard heard himself hailed in a familiar voice; he turned and saw Narramore. "I beg your pardon," said his friend, coming near. "I didn't notice I thought you were alone, or, of course I shouldn't have shouted. Shall you be at home to-morrow afternoon?" "If it rains." "It's sure to rain. I shall look in about four." With a glance at Miss Ringrose, he raised his hat and passed on.
But it isn't natural to me to talk of this kind of thing, even with so intimate a friend. Some men couldn't keep it to themselves: for me the difficulty is to speak." "I asked again, because I have been thinking mightn't Mr. Narramore be able to help me to get work?" Hilliard repelled the suggestion with strong distaste. On no account would he seek his friend's help in such a matter.
Infinitely keener was the pang which Maurice experienced; he could not forgive himself, kept exclaiming how brutally he had behaved, and sank into gloominess. Not very long after, he took Narramore to walk in the same direction; they came again to the little shop, and Hilliard surprised his companion with a triumphant shout.
The exercise did him good; on returning he felt able to sit down by the fire, and turn over the plates of his great book on French Cathedrals. This, at all events, remained to him out of the wreck, and was a joy that could be counted upon in days to come. He hoped Narramore would keep his promise, and was not disappointed. On the verge of dusk his friend knocked and entered.
Could I help her? I asked her why she came to me. She said she had heard of me from someone who used to be employed at our place. That was flattering. I showed my sense of it. Then I asked her name, and she said it was Miss Madeley." A gust threw rain against the windows. Narramore paused, looking into the fire, and smiling thoughtfully. "You foresee the course of the narrative?"
Robert Narramore, a long-stemmed pipe at his lips, sat by the fireside; on the table lay the materials of a satisfactory supper a cold fowl, a ham, a Stilton cheese, and a bottle of wine. "Hollo! You?" he exclaimed, without rising. "I was going to write to you; thanks for saving me the trouble. Have something to eat?" "Yes, and to drink likewise." "Do you mind ringing the bell?
But she looked you up because she despaired of finding employment; she was at an end of her money, didn't know what to do. I have heard this since I saw you last. It wasn't quite straightforward, but one can forgive it in a girl hard driven by necessity." Narramore was listening with eagerness, his lips parted, and a growing hope in his eyes. "There never was anything serious between you?"
"Why should you suppose she didn't?" replied Narramore with some emphasis. "You must look at this affair in a different light, Hilliard. A joke is a joke, but I've told you that the joking time has gone by. I can make allowance for you: you think I have been making a fool of myself, after all." "The beginning was ominous." "The beginning of our acquaintance? Yes, I know how it strikes you.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking