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Updated: June 13, 2025
We can't live together because our marriage is not a marriage. Your marriage with Parflete was not a marriage, but it appears so to the world. Is it worth while to undeceive the world? When I think of the cost of such a proof I say it is too great. But if you are courageous and you will be for my sake we can defy every one on one condition. We must be sure of ourselves.
Mrs. Parflete whose courage, determination, and powers of endurance were concealed by a face which might have been made of lovely gauze seemed less a being than a poetical creation: a portrait by Watteau or Fragonard stepped from its frame, animated by pure fancy, and moving, without sorrow and without labour, through a charmed existence.
Mudara, according to his own Confession, left the Embassy and proceeded at once to the small private hotel near Covent Garden where Parflete had taken up his abode. He had bought a few rather beautiful prints and a number of exquisitely bound books. These last, with bowls and vases of flowers, were scattered over the various tables.
He walked along toward Almouth House in a mood of many vexations, cursing the impudence of Bradwyn and Ullweather, wondering whether he had done wisely, after all, in engaging himself to the blameless Miss Carillon, sighing a little over a rumour which had reached him about Sara de Treverell and the Duke of Marshire, deploring the obstinacy of Robert Orange where Mrs. Parflete was concerned.
"How can you assume such horrors?" said Sara. "The imagination," said His Excellency, "is always more struck by likelihoods than the reason convinced by the examination of facts! My dear friend, let us survey the position. Orange does not seem to have the most distant idea of making Mrs. Parflete his his belle amie. Well and good.
He had sprinkled most judiciously among his guests a few accredited experts in various departments of knowledge, and these he hoped would lead appreciation into the right channel by explaining, at fit intervals, just why Mrs. Parflete was beautiful and just where her art had its especial distinction.
It was in my will to strike him again. I was beside myself with contempt at what I took to be a fresh revelation of his cowardice. I replied coolly enough, "I would not murder you. Have no alarm on that score. But I can defend myself, I hope." By this time he had reached the door and thrown it open. A waiter was passing at the time. "Sir," said Parflete, "I have the honour to wish you good-day."
"Like other people," repeated the priest, mechanically. "I must send word to my housekeeper that I intend to remain here all night. And I should like our letters I had no time to look at them." A messenger was despatched, and they resumed their former conversation. "I am afraid," said Pensée, "that poor Mr. Parflete was dreadfully wicked."
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