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Updated: June 19, 2025
Now and again they have differences of opinion, as to-day, over my taste for veau a l'oseille; but, on the whole, their relations are harmonious, and she keeps him in a good-humour: Naturally, she feeds the brute. The duty-impulse, stimulated by my call yesterday on one aunt by marriage, led my footsteps this afternoon to the house of the other, Mrs. Ralph Ordeyne.
And we laugh at you, my good friend, for the more you expound, the more do you reveal your beautiful and artistic ignorance. Oh, Marcus, the idea of you setting up as a feminine psychologist." "And pray, why not?" I asked, somewhat nettled. "Because you are that dear, impossible, lovable thing known as Marcus Ordeyne." This was exceedingly pretty of Judith.
Ordeyne, who has borne me no malice for stepping into the place that should have been the inheritance of her husband and of her son. Rather has she devised to adopt me, to guide my ambitions and to point out my duties as the head of the house. If I refuse to be adopted, avoid ambitions and disclaim duties, the fault lies not with her good-will.
I was arranging my notes, I had an illuminating inspiration concerning the life of Francois Villon and the contemporary court of Cosmo de' Medici; I was preparing to fix it in writing when the door opened and Stenson announced: "Mrs. Ordeyne and Miss Ordeyne." My Aunt Jessica and Dora came in and my inspiration went out. It hasn't come back yet.
But his eyes sparkled like bits of glass in the sun. "Well, Ordeyne?" he inquired, looking up from letters to parents. "I have come to ask you to accept my resignation," said I. "I would like you to release me at once." "Come, come, things are not as bad as all that," said he, kindly. I looked stupidly at him for a moment. "Of course I know you've got one or two troublesome forms," he continued.
The younger of the two, who had been examining the paw, looked up with a smile. "Your ward is forgiven. Punch oughtn't to jump on strange ladies' laps, whether they are Mohammedans or not. Oh! he is more frightened than hurt. And I," she added, with a twinkling eye, "am more hurt than frightened, because Sir Marcus Ordeyne doesn't recognise me."
As I had not seen or heard of him since the end of July I had concluded that he was wandering as usual over the globe. He greeted me effusively, holding out both hands in his foreign fashion. "My dear old Ordeyne! who would have thought of meeting you here? What wind blows you to Paddington?" "I expect Carlotta by the Plymouth Express." "The fair Carlotta? And how is she?
With her elbows on the marble table, the glass held in both hands, she drinks sensuously, in little sips. And I, Marcus Ordeyne, sit by watching her, a most contented philosopher of forty. A dingo dog could not be so contented. That young fellow, I unhesitatingly assert, must be the most brainless of his type.
My "History of Renaissance Morals" can lie in its corner and rot, whilst I shall concern myself with a far more vital theme The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne. The rough entries in my diary have been a habit of many futile years; but they have never sufficed for self-expression. I have not needed it till now.
"I did not know whom I should have the pleasure of seeing," said he in his execrable French. "In what way can I be of service to Sir Marcus Ordeyne?" "What have you done with Carlotta?" I asked, glaring at him. His ignoble small-pox pitted face assumed an expression of bland inquiry. "Carlotta?" "Yes," said I. "Where have you taken her to?" "Explain yourself, Monsieur," said Hamdi.
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