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Updated: May 14, 2025
"You can be quite a good chap if you try," he said. Noel responded like a dog to a caress. "The mischief is to keep it up," he said. "But we won't quarrel anyhow. I'll make every allowance for you, old boy, for you're in a beastly unhealthy position; and you'll have to do the same savvy? But for all that, that letter was no more written by Mrs. Pouncefort than by the man in the moon."
She seemed to breathe with difficulty. "Of course it's private! All my letters are private!" "But it comes from the Pounceforts," objected Noel. "I saw 'Sandacre Court' at the top of the page." Chris sprang to her feet impetuously with blazing eyes. "And what if it does? You had no right to look over me. It was a hateful thing to do. What if it does come from Mrs. Pouncefort?
"The invitation," said Aunt Philippa, not to be diverted from her purpose, "was quite casual. You could quite well have accompanied me. In fact, I think Mrs. Pouncefort was surprised not to see you. However, we need not discuss that further. Doubtless you had your own reasons for desiring to remain at home, and I shall not ask you what those reasons were.
Is it mine any the less for that?" "Oh, don't get huffy!" remonstrated Noel. "Look at you! Anyone would think you had got the palsy. But you needn't pretend it's from Mrs. Pouncefort, because I know better." "It it is from Mrs. Pouncefort!" declared Chris. "Which is a lie," rejoined Noel, with the utmost calmness. "I know you, my dear girl, I know you. You've told 'em before." "Noel!"
Aunt Philippa was on the war trail, and she would not rest until she had tracked down her quarry. She began at once to speak of her morning's visit to Mrs. Pouncefort, whom she knew as a London hostess. Personally, she disapproved of her, but she could not afford to pass her over, since her status in society was by no means inconsiderable, being, in fact, almost capable of rivalling her own.
Wonder who it's from?" He leaned against her chair to recover his breath and regarded the envelope he held with frank interest. Chris stretched up her hand for it. "I expect it's from Mrs. Pouncefort." "Mrs. Pouncefort doesn't write like that!" protested Noel. "No woman could." "May I have it?" said Chris. He put it into her hand, but he still leaned against her chair.
How did you like him, Bertrand?" "Who?" said Bertrand somewhat curtly. "What did they call him Rodolphe, wasn't it? That French chap with the beastly little beard." "I did not like him," said Bertrand, with precision. "That's all right," said Noel approvingly. "But he's reigning favourite with Mrs. Pouncefort, anyone can see with half an eye. Rum, isn't it?
Emerging into the hot sunshine that beat upon the crowded lawn, she knew herself to be cold from head to foot. "Good-bye!" said Mrs. Pouncefort. "So glad you came. I hope you haven't been bored." "Bored to extinction," murmured Noel. "Hi, Trevor! Let me drive, like a good chap. Do!" "Certainly not," said Mordaunt, with decision. "You are going to sit behind.
Pouncefort's garden-party was an annual affair of some importance to which everyone, from the County downwards, was bidden, and from which very few absented themselves. The Pouncefort entertainments were generally upon a lavish scale, were also largely attended by the military element of Sandacre society, and were invariably described in the local journals as "very smart affairs."
Mordaunt, how is Kellerton Old Park by this time? I hardly recognized it the day I called. Rupert tells me you have worked wonders inside as well as out." "May I introduce our friend Monsieur Bertrand?" said Chris. Bertrand brought his heels together and bowed low over the limp hand transferred to his. Mrs. Pouncefort smiled. "There is a fellow-countryman of yours here. Where has he gone?
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