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Updated: April 30, 2025
Herbert Pryme stood by a much ink-stained and littered table in his chambers in the Temple, with his hands in his trousers pockets, whistling a slow and melancholy tune. It was Mr. Pryme's habit to whistle when he was dejected or perplexed; and the whistling generally partook of the mournful condition of his feelings.
That was how Herbert Pryme came to be once more re-instated in the good graces of his lady love's father and mother. Mr. Esterworth contrived to give them so terrifying an account of the danger in which Beatrice had been placed, and so graphic and highly-coloured a description of Herbert Pryme's pluck and sagacity in rushing to her rescue, that Mr. and Mrs.
And then Beatrice made a clean breast of it. "I will see if I can help you," said her uncle, seriously, when she had finished her story; "but I can't think how you can have set your heart upon a fellow who can't ride!" This was evidently a far more fatal error in Tom Esterworth's eyes than the other matter of her being shut up in Mr. Pryme's rooms.
Pryme's chambers to the wife of his bosom. "The young man is not fit for her," he had said; "his private life will not bear investigation. You must tell Beatrice to put him out of her head." Mrs. Miller had, of course, been virtuously indignant over Mr. Pryme's offences, but she had also been triumphantly elated over her own sagacity. "Did I not tell you he was not a proper husband for her?
Either of these visitors were equally unwelcome, which must be some excuse for the roughness of Mr. Pryme's language. The door was softly pushed ajar. "Now, then come in, can't you; who the deuce are you Beatrice!" Enter Miss Miller, smiling. "Oh, fie, Herbert! what naughty words, sir." "Beatrice, is it possible that it is you! Where is your mother?
What the print of a hob-nailed boot must be to the lonely traveller across the desert, what the sight of a man from one's own club going down Pall Mall is in mid-September, or as a draught of Giesler's '68 to an epicure who has been about to perish on ginger-beer so did Herbert Pryme's face shine upon Maurice Kynaston out of the arid waste of that Vevay salle-
How was Beatrice to say to her mother, "It was I your daughter who was there, shut up in Mr. Pryme's bedroom." She could not speak the words. The sunshine twinkled in Shadonake's many windows, and flooded its velvet lawns.
"Oh, Herbert, it is like a scene out of a naughty French play! I shall die of laughter!" Without a moment's thought, she fled into the inner room, the door of which stood ajar, and which was none other than Mr. Pryme's bed-chamber! There was no time to think of any better expedient. Beatrice turned the key upon herself, and Herbert called out "Come in!" to the intruder.
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