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Updated: July 25, 2025
Bertrand du Gueselin performed his best deeds against the English after he was fifty, and he was upward of sixty years when the commandant of Randon laid the keys of his fortress on his body, surrendering, not to the living, but to the dead. Turenne was ever great, but it is admitted that his three last campaigns, begun when he was sixty-two, were his greatest performances.
"You believe that, I know, William," his wife commented; "I have often heard you say so. But what is your opinion, Mr. Randon have you reached one and is a conclusion possible?" "I can't answer any of your questions," he admitted; "perhaps this is one of the things that must be experienced to be understood; certainly it hasn't a great deal to do with the mind."
The morning found him unrefreshed, impatient; and he was glad that his early breakfast was solitary; Lee didn't want then to see either Claire or Fanny, he was in no mood to discuss Peyton's seizure. That, it seemed to Lee Randon, was exactly what had happened to the younger man Peyton had gone within the region of a contagious fever that had run through all his blood.
He wasn't fit to have a wife like Fanny, children as good as Helena and Gregory: he, Lee Randon, was a damned ingrate! That bloody doll he had threatened to put it in the fire before could now go where it belonged. But the hearth was empty, cold. Cytherea, with her disdainful gaze, evaded his wavering reach.
The Spencer house was sparely furnished, a square unimpressive dwelling principally adapted to the early summers of its energetic children; and Peyton and Lee Randon allowed themselves to be crowded into the bare angle formed by a high inner door. "Claire told you," the younger said. "Yes," Lee replied briefly.
But, in spite of it, Lee had an appearance, as he phrased it, of good luck. The world, he said, was evidently in favor of Mr. Randon. The latter agreed that it had such a look. He was positively jovial. He dismissed the cab before the familiar entrance on East Sixty-sixth Street, and was admitted immediately: the servant caught his coat, and he went into the drawing- room.
Grove," he observed; "now it is 'the Grove woman. What will you call her next?" "You will have to tell me that," Fanny said. "Lee Randon, what must I call her?" "Perhaps, if you knew her, you'd try Savina." "Not if it was to save me from dying. But I have no doubt of which you preferred. Did you?" "Did I what?" He was aware that his speech was growing far louder than necessary.
You see, often I think I'm like that, a thing for bright colors to pour through. It's very discouraging. There is Peyton, and he'll want to dance." She rose, slipping out of her cloak. Lee Randon saw Fanny not far away, and he dropped into a chair beside her. "Well," he asked, "how is it going?" "It seems all right," she told him, with one of her engaging smiles.
There was a response to that as recognized, as exact, as the bishop's move in chess; indeed, it was expected of him; she was hesitating, waiting for it; but he was unable to reassure her with the conventional sentiment. A month ago he would have commanded and developed an enticing situation; but now, for Lee Randon, it was without possibilities, hardly more than perfunctory.
She breathed in an audible sigh and, with what appeared to be a wrenching effort, turned from him to the general conversation. Lee Randon, losing his first impression of her attitude, was totally unable to comprehend the more difficult state that had its place. A possible explanation he dismissed before it had crystallized into thought.
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