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Gilbert Palgrave held her in such small respect that he waited with patience for her to come, although married, into his arms. And there was not a man or a woman on the Round-about, except Alice, who really cared whether she ever went back again. The greedy squirrel peeked at her from behind a fern, recognized his old playmate, and came forward in a series of runs and leaps.
Ingenuity to spend his income was required of Palgrave. He possessed that gift to an expert degree. But he was no easy mark, no mere degenerate who hacked off great chunks of a splendid fortune for the sake of violent exercise. He was too indolent for violence, too inherently fastidious for degeneracy.
A great critic, F. T. Palgrave, has expressed perhaps the soundest appreciation of Tennyson: It is for "the days that remain" to bear witness to his real place in the great hierarchy, amongst whom Dante boldly yet justly ranked himself.
He went on with what he had been saying and swung the chair round. Joan was smiling again. Oldershaw squared his jaw. "I advise against this side, Joan," he said. "Let me take you round." He earned a quick amused look and a half shrug of white shoulders from Joan. Palgrave continued to talk in a low confidential voice.
"Marty! Is that you?" "It's all right," said Gilbert Palgrave. "I've been playing patience for half an hour. I'm going to see you home." "You are going home?" "Yes," said Joan, "without the shadow of a doubt." "Which means that I'd better tell the chauffeur to drive round to the One-o'clock, eh?" "I'll drop you there if you like. I'm really truly going home." "All right."
Where had Goliah got the sinews of war? was the question. And the surmised answer was: By exploiting these stolen labourers. It was they that lived in the exposed village on Palgrave Island. It was the product of their toil that had purchased the yachts and merchant steamers and enabled Goliah's agents to permeate society and carry out his will.
Leaving out of the account the numbers of gentlemen who came to see the revived glories of the Palgrave mansion, there was a large number of men who had been summoned by Mrs. Dillingham's cards men who undoubtedly ought to have been in better business or in better company.
The footman was obviously English, with the art of footmanism in his blood. "Is Mrs. Gilbert Palgrave at home?" asked Joan as if the question were entirely superfluous. "No, miss." "Are you sure?" "Quite sure, miss. Mrs. Palgrave left for Boston yesterday on account of hillness in the family, miss." There was an awkward and appalled silence.
"By the way, you don't happen to be a member of the club, do you, Mr. Palgrave?" With consummate impudence Palgrave caught his eye and made a sort of policeman gesture. "Run away, my lad," he said, "run away and amuse yourself." He almost asked for death.
The Gilbert Palgrave who had been molded by money and inertia and autocracy was discarded, and the man with Joan at his side was the young Gilbert whom he had caught sight of that night in Paris, when, on his way home under the stars, Joan, with her brown hair and laughing eyes, tip-tilted nose and the spirit of spring in her breath, had come out of his inner consciousness and established herself like a shape in a dream.
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