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Updated: June 22, 2025
But there was no one in the garden; nothing but the trees and the flowers, wind shaken and lit by the moon, the same placid moon that had lit the garden of Vernons for the lovers of whom he knew nothing except by hearsay, and for whom he cared nothing at all. When Phyl awoke from sleep next morning, the brightness of the South had lost some of its charm.
"Well," said the young man, "the two things that struck me most about Dublin were the dirt and the want of taxicabs." A dead silence followed this remark. Never tell an Irishman that Dublin is dirty. Hennessey was dumb, and as for Phyl, she knew now that she hated this man. "Of course," went on the other, "it's a fine old city and I'm not sure that I would alter it or even brush it up.
"You'll sit down with us and have some tea, Jim," she told him. "Me? I'm no society Willie. Don't know the game at all, Phyl. Besides, I'm carrying half of Arizona on my clothes. It's some dusty down in the Malpais." Nevertheless he sat down, and, over the biscuits and jam, told the meagre story of what he had found out.
Phyl, looking lovely in the simple, rather old-fashioned dress evolved for her by the combined geniuses of Maria Pinckney and Madame Organdie, produced that sensation which can only be evoked by newness, her effect was instantaneous and profound, it touched not only every one of these strangers but also Maria Pinckney and Richard.
Then he mastered himself, but if murder ever showed itself upon the countenance of man it showed itself in that half second on the countenance of Silas Grangerson. "You'll be sorry for that," said he. "Don't speak to me," said Phyl. "You are horrible bad wicked I will tell Richard Pinckney." "Do," said Silas. "Tell him also I'll be even with him yet.
Every picture in every mirror is the work of an artist the man who makes a mirror is an artist; according to the perfection of his work is the perfection of the picture. The old cheval glass was as truthful in its way as Gainsborough, but Gainsborough had never such a lovely subject as Phyl. She started at her own reflection as though it had been that of a stranger.
He was a big, loosely-made man, an easy going man with a kind heart who would have come to financial disaster long ago only for his partner, Niven. "He's almost due to be here by now," said he, taking out his watch and looking at it, "unless the express from Dublin is late." "What'll he be like, do you think?" said Phyl. "There's no saying," replied Mr. Hennessey.
She seemed in a critical mood, but what she said to Miss Pinckney was lost to Phyl whose attention was attracted by a chuckling sound from near the range. It was Prue. The old woman at sight of Phyl had dropped the knife and the onion on which she had been engaged.
He was about to cast himself beside her when a pain, vicious and sharp as the stab of a red hot needle struck him just above his right instep. When Richard Pinckney came down to breakfast that morning, he found Miss Pinckney seated at the table reading letters. "Phyl went out early and has not come back yet," said she putting the letters aside and pouring out the tea. "Gone out," said he.
Claude, with his arm still round his sister's waist, gave Maurice a look, expressing, 'Is that the truth? and Reginald tumbled head over heels, exclaiming, 'I would not have been Phyl just them. Ada now came running up to them, saying, 'Maurice and Redgie, you are to come in; Mr. and Mrs. Burnet heard your voices, and begged to see you, because they never saw you last holidays.
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