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Updated: September 19, 2025
"Certainly," said Presbury. "And for your daughter, too." "I can't go," said Mildred. "I'm dining with the Fassetts." The family no longer had a servant in constant attendance in the dining-room. The maid of many functions also acted as butler and as fetch-and-carry between kitchen and butler's pantry.
Mildred, lifting her eyes, saw by way of a mirrored section of the enormous sideboard the English butler surveying master and guests with slowly moving, sneering glance of ineffable contempt. In the drawing-room again Mildred, requested by Siddall and ordered by Presbury, sang a little French song and then at the urging of Siddall "Annie Laurie." Siddall was wiping his eyes when she turned around.
She stood up, clenched her hands, struck them together, struck them against her temples, crossed the room swiftly, flung herself down upon a sofa, and burst into tears. Presbury and his wife entered. Siddall was standing, looking after Mildred with a grin. He winked at Presbury and said: "I guess we gave her too much of that wine. It's all old and stronger than you'd think."
Bill's handicap has been that he hadn't much education or any swell relatives. But he's a genius at money-making." Presbury looked at Mildred with a grin. "And he's just the husband for Mildred. She can't afford to be too particular. Somebody's got to support her. I can't and won't, and she can't support herself." "You'll go won't you, Mildred?" said her mother. "He may not be so bad."
He would have been better pleased had they preceded and followed every mouthful with a eulogy. He supplemented their compliments with even more fulsome compliments, adding details as to the origin and the cost. "Darcy" this to the butler "tell the chef that this fish is the best yet really exquisite." To Presbury: "I had it brought over from France alive, of course.
With an affectation of modest hesitation to show that he was a gentleman with a gentleman's fine appreciation of the due of maiden modesty Siddall paused at the outer door of his own apartments. But at one sentence of urging from Mrs. Presbury he opened the door and ushered them in.
None had guessed the cause of her chronic ill-temper until Presbury, that genius for the little, said within a week of their marriage: "You talk and act like a woman with chronic corns." He did not dream of the effect this chance thrust had upon his wife. For the first time he had really "landed."
A widower named James Presbury, elderly, with an income of five to six thousand a year from inherited wealth, stumbled into Hanging Rock to live, was impressed by the style the widow Gower maintained, believed the rumor that her husband had left her better off than was generally thought, proposed, and was accepted. And two years and a month after Henry Gower's death his widow became Mrs.
Without any encouragement from her he gradually got a deep respect for her which meant that he became convinced of her coldness and exclusiveness, of her absolute trustworthiness. Presbury was more profoundly right than he knew. The girl pursued the only course that made possible the success she longed for, yet dreaded and loathed.
"Has he been married before?" asked Mrs. Presbury. "Twice," replied her husband. "His first wife died. He divorced the second for unfaithfulness."
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