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Updated: May 25, 2025
Neave had come into a fortune two or three million dollars, amassed by an uncle who had a corset-factory, and who had attained wealth as the creator of the Mystic Super-straight. The uncle had a son, and Neave had never dreamed of seeing a penny of the money; but the son died suddenly, and the father followed, leaving a codicil that gave everything to our friend.
Nothing special had happened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch until close on four. Where had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn't going to let his father know. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-bye to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual, cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found so fascinating.
For the Neave collection, my dear fellow, began early, began almost with his Roman life, began in a series of little nameless odds and ends, broken trinkets, torn embroideries, the amputated extremities of maimed marbles: things that even the rag-picker had pitched away when he sifted his haul.
The very house, with its "art" shades of upholstery, its hammered brass fenders, its wooden nooks and angles filled with ramshackle bookcases, hard seats and inadequately stuffed cushions, was artificial; it was make-believe, pretentious, insincere. . . . "Lady Barbara Neave." There was a rustle of excitement, the more noticeable against the conscientious effort of several not to seem interested.
He flapped the script impatiently on his knee as the now familiar knock of Eric's parlour-maid was heard yet again. "Lady Barbara Neave to see you, sir," she whispered a little breathlessly. "Will you please say that I can't possibly see any one?" Eric answered curtly. "Tell her that two gentlemen have come to see me on business. Ask her to leave a message."
And because I've a queer feeling that, this time, they'll be mine. But I'm ruining myself at the game!" he confessed. It was true: Neave was ruining himself. And he's gone on ruining himself ever since, till now the job's nearly done. Bit by bit, year by year, he has gathered in his scattered treasures, at higher prices than the dealers ever dreamed of getting.
But one day, in Paris, I ran across a dealer who had captured for a song one of the best Florentine bronzes in the Daunt collection a marvellous plaquette of Donatello's. I asked him what had become of it, and he said with a grin: "I sold it the other day," naming a price that staggered me. "Ye gods! Who paid you that for it?" His grin broadened, and he answered: "Neave." " Neave? Humphrey Neave?"
Lady Maitland, complaining that "Margaret Poynter always ACCAPARER-s my nice young men," invited him to shew his loyalty by coming to dine on Friday. "Babs Neave is coming," she added. As he had intended to spend Sunday evening in the country, he was absolved from all work and could give undivided attention to the dinner which his cook had improvised.
Moses Neave, of the respectable society of the Quakers, was the chairman; Thomas Bell, the secretary; and Ellis B. Metford and the Reverend Mr. Davis and others the committee. This was the third committee which had been instituted in the country for this purpose. That at Bristol, under Mr. Joseph Harford as chairman, and Mr.
The dial must stand as he had left it. Lady Barbara Neave had come and gone; she was not going to disturb his work. His sleep seemed to be interrupted almost instantly by the arrival of a maid with tea, rusks, letters and The Times. His head was hot, but he was singularly untired; that would come later.
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