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Updated: June 4, 2025
He had no "principles" to pit against them: he had merely the inveterate distaste for hurting anybody, and a feeling that if he yielded to his inclination he would be faced ultimately with a worse situation than ever. It was not possible for him to look at the position as Mr. Purcey might have done, if his wife had withdrawn from him and a girl had put herself in his way.
"We'll smoke, Stevie, if Cis doesn't mind." Stephen Dallison placed a cigarette between his moustacheless lips, always rather screwed up, and ready to nip with a smile anything that might make him feel ridiculous. "Phew!" he said. "Our friend Purcey becomes a little tedious. He seems to take the whole of Philistia about with him." "He's a very decent fellow," murmured Hilary.
Purcey's figure from his cloth-topped boots to his tall hat, and said: "Shall we go in and find her?" As they went along Mr. Purcey said: "That's the young the er model I met in your wife's studio, isn't it? Pretty girl!" Hilary compressed his lips. "Now, what sort of living do those girls make?" pursued Mr. Purcey. "I suppose they've most of them other resources. Eh, what?"
The whizz of a motor-car rapidly approaching them became a sort of roar, and out of it a voice shouted: "How are you?" A hand was seen to rise in salute. It was Mr. Purcey driving his A.i. Damyer back to Wimbledon. Before him in the sunlight a little shadow fled; behind him the reek of petrol seemed to darken the road. "There's a symbol for you," muttered Hilary.
Mr. Purcey said: "That's rippin' of you!" A postman, dog, and baker's cart, all hurrying at top speed, seemed to stand still; Cecilia felt the wind beating her cheeks. She gave a little laugh. "You must just take me home, please." Mr. Purcey touched the chauffeur's elbow. "Round the park," he said. "Let her have it." The A.i. Damyer uttered a tiny shriek.
He turned a queer, perplexed, almost quizzical eye on it. Stephen had irritated him profoundly. He had such a way of pettifying things! Yet, in truth, the affair would seem ridiculous enough to an ordinary observer. What would a man of sound common sense, like Mr. Purcey, think of it? Why not, as Stephen had suggested, drop it? Here, however, Hilary approached the marshy ground of feeling.
In that little sentence lay the whole psychology of his attitude towards this situation and all the difference between two classes of the population. Mr. Purcey would undoubtedly have said: "Well, I'm damned!"
This new but aged acquaintance did not seem to hear; his lips moved as though he were following out some thought. "In those days," Mr. Purcey heard him say, "the congeries of men were known as rookeries. The expression was hardly just towards that handsome bird." Mr. Purcey touched him hastily on the arm. "I've got my car here, sir," he said. "Do let me put you down!"
Purcey, however, was not a man who allowed the finest shades of feeling to interfere with his enjoyments. She was a "strikin'-lookin' woman," and there was, thanks to Harpignies, a link between them. "Your father and I, Mrs. Dallison, can't quite understand each other," he began. "Our views of life don't seem to hit it off exactly."
Purcey, rising and falling a little with the oscillation of his A.i. Damyer. A sense as of having just left a house visited by sickness or misfortune made Cecilia murmur: "I'm afraid she's not." "Bad luck!" said Mr. Purcey. His face fell as far as so red and square a face could fall. "I was hoping perhaps I might be allowed to take them for a run. She's wanting exercise." Mr.
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