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Updated: May 18, 2025
Viola says some of them prefer afternoon lessons because they haven't got any evening-dress." "If I were you I shouldn't rush at it," said Mr. Prohack. "But we must rush at it or lose it. And I've no intention of losing it. Viola has to make her arrangements at once." "I wonder what your mother will say when you ask her." "I shan't ask her. I shall tell her. Nobody can decide this thing for me.
In two days, in a day, with no warning to him of her extraordinary precipitancy, she had 'flitted'! At Claridge's, through giving Monsieur Charles, the maitre d' hôtel, carte blanche in the ordering of his dinner and then only half-eating his dinner, Mr. Prohack failed somewhat to maintain his prestige, though he regained ground towards the end by means of champagne and liqueurs.
Prohack hesitated a moment and then said: "Drive into Hyde Park, please, and keep to the north side." When the car had reached a quiet spot in the park, Mr. Prohack stopped it, and, tapping on the front window, summoned Carthew. "Carthew," said he, through the side-window, which he let down without opening the door, "we're by ourselves. Will you kindly explain to me why you concealed from Mrs.
Prohack raised his hands and laughed in what he hoped was a sardonic manner. "I give you young women up," he murmured. "Yes, I give you up. You're my enemy. We're at law. And you want to talk confidentially! How can I tell whether I can let you talk confidentially until I've heard what you're going to say?" "Oh! I was only going to say that I'm not really the owner-driver of the car.
Prohack a more serene and proud satisfaction than the fact that he had materially lost through the war. He was positively glad that he had lost, and that the Government, his employer, had treated him badly.... And now to become the heir of a profiteer! Nor was that all! To become the co-heir with a woman of dubious renown, and with Mr. Softly Bishop!
The hotel-staff, like all hotel-staffs, loved a customer who knew his mind with precision and could speak it. Mr. Prohack was admirably served. After tea he took a bath because he could think of nothing else to do. The bath, as baths will, inspired him with an idea. He set out on foot to Manchester Square, and having reached the Square cautiously followed the side opposite to the noble mansion.
From the star's dressing-room, at the end, a crowd of all sorts and conditions of persons was being pushed. Mr. Prohack trembled with an awful apprehension, and asked himself vainly what in the name of commonsense he was doing there, and prayed that Ozzie might be refused admission. The next moment he was being introduced to a middle-aged woman in a middle-aged dressing-gown.
Prohack was not now a man, he was a grievance; he was the most deadly kind of grievance, the irrational kind. A superlatively fine cigar did a little not much to solace him. He smoked it with scientific slowness, and watched the restaurant empty itself.... He was the last survivor in the restaurant; and fifteen waiters and two hundred and fifty electric lamps were keeping him in countenance.
Long ere they reached the waiting motor-car the bunting had been hauled down. In the car Mr. Prohack said: "Tell me something more about that paper-making business. It sounds interesting." When Mr. Prohack reached his daughter's house again late in the night, it was his wife who opened the door to him. "Good heavens, Arthur! Where have you been?
Prohack's great crony, Sir Paul Spinner, the banker, who suffered from carbuncles and who always drove over from the city in the middle of the day. "Here's old Paul grumbling again!" said Sims of Downing Street. "After all, this is the best club in London." "It certainly is," said Mr. Prohack, "when it's closed.
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