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Updated: May 11, 2025
Conversation had dwindled in energy with the closing hour of the affair, and seizing an auspicious moment, Norton Pyford had reached the piano, and for twenty minutes demonstrated the close relation of the chord of C Minor to the colour brown.
Lady Durwent glanced, interrogatively about the table; Madame Carlotti took a hitch in her gown; Norton Pyford emptied his glass and sat pensively staring at it as if it had hardly done what he expected, but on the whole he felt inclined to forgive it; Johnston Smyth made a belated attempt to be sentimental with the Honourable Miss Durwent, whose lips, always at war with each other, merely parted in a smile that utterly failed to bring any sympathy from her eyes; Mrs.
Only Norton Pyford, in a sort of befuddled gallantry, suggested that the ladies might have sentimental confidences to exchange, and leered amorously at Elise Durwent. 'Well, said Lady Durwent, 'I am sure we are all curious to hear what Mr. Selwyn thinks of England, so I think we shall have coffee here. Is it agreeable to every one?
Pyford, put in Lady Durwent, descrying a storm on the yellow and black horizon, 'has just written' 'MR. H. STACKTON DUNCKLEY, announced the butler, with an appropriate note of mysterioso.
'Can't, said Norton Pyford, pulling himself up; 'I'm prejudiced. 'For or against? 'Against the culprit. 'My discordant friend, said Smyth, producing a second bottle from an unsuspected source and making it disappear mysteriously, 'means that he is prejudiced against England. Am I right, sir? 'Not exactly, drawled the composer. 'I don't mind England but I think the English are awful.
He was short, with a retreating forehead and an overhanging wealth of black, thread-like hair, gamely covering the retreat as best it could. 'Hello, Smyth! drawled the composer, who affected a manner of speech usually confined to footmen in the best families. 'Hah d' do? 'Topping, Pyford. How's things? 'Rotten. 'Same here. 'I say, you couldn't' 'Just what I was going to ask you.
H. Stackton Dunckley had held the resolutionist in a duel of language a combat with broadswords and honours were fairly even. The short-sleeved Johnston Smyth had waged futurist warfare against the modernist Pyford, while the Honourable Miss Durwent sat helplessly between them, with as little chance of asserting her rights as the Dormouse at the Mad Hatter's tea-party.
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