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Updated: June 22, 2025
Arnaud, however, who had met Dodge Pleydon in Philadelphia, brought him home. Linda saw with a strange constriction of the heart that Pleydon's hair was definitely gray. He had had a recurrence of the fever contracted in Soochow.
And she determined to ask the Lowries for another and more extended invitation. Pleydon came, as she had expected, and they sat in the small reception-room with the high ceiling and dark velvet hangings, the piano at which, long ago it now seemed, Judith had played the airs of Gluck for her.
"It's true, certainly. But isn't it more unpleasant than necessary?" Pleydon smiled patiently. "Beauty," he said, with his mobile gesture. "Pity, Katharsis the wringing out of all dross." The helpless feeling of her overwhelming ignorance returned. She was like a woman held beyond the closed door of treasure. "Come over here."
There were a number of modeling stands with twisted wires grotesquely resembling a child's line drawing of a human being; while a stand with some modeling tools on its edge bore an upright figure shapeless in its swathing of dampened cloths. "The great moment," Pleydon said again, in a vibrant tone. "But you know nothing of all this," he directly addressed Linda.
Yes, he would succeed, but, after all, what would his success be worth placed, that was, against Vigne's radiant happiness, Bailey Sandby's quiet eyes and the quality of his return home each evening? Her thoughts came back to Pleydon she had before her a New York paper describing the ceremony of unveiling his Simon Downige at Hesperia.
Pleydon had become very irregular indeed about his meals, and that his return for lunch was uncertain. Something, however, would be prepared for her. Linda acknowledged this briefly. Often, with Mr. Pleydon at home, he wouldn't so much as look at his dinner. Times, too, it seemed as though he had been in the studio all night.
"Then your aunt," Elouise said to Pleydon, "was Carrie Dodge. I recall her perfectly." That established, the Lowrie women talked with a gracious freedom, exploring the furthermost infiltrations of blood and marriages. Linda was again serene.
Most of these circumstances Linda Hallet quietly recalled sitting with her husband in the house that had been occupied by the Lowries'. A letter from Pleydon had taken her into a past seven years gone by; while ordinarily her memory was indistinct; ordinarily she was fully occupied by the difficulties, or rather compromises, of the present.
There was a broken mental fantasy of of a leopard bearing a woman in shining hair. This was succeeded by a bright thrust of happiness and, all about her, a surging like the imagined beat of the wings of the Victory in Markue's room. Almost Pleydon had explained everything, almost he was everything; and then the other, putting him aside, had swept her back into the misery of doubt and loneliness.
Pleydon turned lightly to Linda: "As a supreme favor do not, when I ask you, marry me." This, for Linda, was horribly embarrassing. However, she gravely promised. The Russian lighted a cigarette; almost she was serene again. Linda said, "Fatness is awful, isn't it?" Pleydon replied, "Death should be the penalty. If women aren't lovely " he waved away every other consideration.
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