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Updated: May 2, 2025
It seemed to flare over Fleet Street and somehow made the actual spot distressingly humble: there was so little for it to feed on unless he counted the blisters of our stucco or saw his way to do something with the roses. Even the poor roses were common kinds. Presently his eyes fell on the manuscript from which Paraday had been reading to me and which still lay on the bench.
I winced as I remembered that this was exactly what I myself had wanted. "Already?" I cried with a sort of sense that my friend had fled to me for protection. Mr. Morrow glared, agreeably, through his glasses: they suggested the electric headlights of some monstrous modem ship, and I felt as if Paraday and I were tossing terrified under his bows. I saw his momentum was irresistible.
I unwarily added. "Things that are TOO far over the fence, eh?" I was indeed a godsend to Mr. Morrow. It was the psychological moment; it determined the appearance of his note-book, which, however, he at first kept slightly behind him, even as the dentist approaching his victim keeps the horrible forceps. "Mr. Paraday holds with the good old proprieties I see!"
Paraday from the point of view of HIS sex, you know would go right round the globe. He takes the line that we HAVEN'T got to face it?" I was bewildered: it sounded somehow as if there were three sexes. My interlocutor's pencil was poised, my private responsibility great. I simply sat staring, none the less, and only found presence of mind to say: "Is this Miss Forbes a gentleman?" Mr.
Fool that I had been: the thirty-seven influential journals wouldn't have destroyed it, they'd only have printed it. Of course I said nothing to Paraday. When the nurse arrived she turned me out of the room, on which I went downstairs.
Two vehicles, a barouche and a smart hansom, were drawn up before the house. "In the drawing-room, sir? Mrs. Weeks Wimbush." "And in the dining-room?" "A young lady, sir waiting: I think a foreigner." It was three o'clock, and on days when Paraday didn't lunch out he attached a value to these appropriated hours. On which days, however, didn't the dear man lunch out? Mrs.
"In your garden that dreadful day? Yes!" "Won't it do as it is?" "It would have been a glorious book." "It IS a glorious book," Neil Paraday murmured. "Print it as it stands beautifully." "Beautifully!" I passionately promised. It may be imagined whether, now that he's gone, the promise seems to me less sacred.
The collection of faded notes, of still more faded "thoughts," of quotations, platitudes, signatures, represented a formidable purpose. I could only disclose my dread of it. "Most people apply to Mr. Paraday by letter, you know." "Yes, but he doesn't answer. I've written three times." "Very true," I reflected; "the sort of letter you mean goes straight into the fire."
At another time when I was at the opera with them Mrs. Milsom had invited me to their box I attempted to point Mr. Paraday out to her in the stalls. On this she asked her sister to change places with her and, while that lady devoured the great man through a powerful glass, presented, all the rest of the evening, her inspired back to the house.
Imperturbably bland, he was a man of resources he only needed to be on the spot. He had pocketed the whole poor place while Paraday and I were wool- gathering, and I could imagine that he had already got his "heads." His system, at any rate, was justified by the inevitability with which I replied, to save my friend the trouble: "Dear no he hasn't read it. He doesn't read such things!"
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