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Updated: May 16, 2025
He had, he proclaimed, with the exception of Mr. Vane's deplorable accident, never spent a better day in his life. Victoria wondered at her own spirits, which were feverish, as she listened to transatlantic gossip about girls she had known who had married Mr. Rangely's friends, and stories of Westminster and South Africa, and certain experiences of Mr.
He was chatting in a corner with Ethel Mott, when Fred Rangely, whose successful novel had made him vastly the fashion that winter, joined them. "When wit and beauty get into a corner together," was Rangely's salutation, "there is sure to be mischief brewing." "It isn't at all kind," Miss Mott retorted, "for you to emphasize the fact that Mr. Fenton has all the wit and I not any."
"No," returned Fred; "is it from anything in particular? I supposed it was just a general steal from the antique, and Stanton appropriates only to destroy." "I don't know what it is," was Bently's reply, "but I know there's a cut of it in a book I've got at the studio." Rangely's eyes flashed. "Good," said he, "I'll come round to-night and we'll look it up.
The more strongly her appealing attitude seemed to press upon him claims which he could not satisfy and had no mind to acknowledge, the more harsh he became, and the more she bent before him. The language of brutality was one which she Understood by inherited instinct. "But why," Fenton was saying impatiently, when Rangely's knock startled them, "do you come here, when I haven't sent for you?
Why, I believe Rangely's actually going home with her." "He asked her to drop him at the Inn," said Mrs. Fronde. "He's head over heels in love already." "It would be such a relief to dear Rose," sighed Mrs. Pomfret. "I like the girl," replied Mrs. Fronde, dryly. "She has individuality, and knows her own mind. Whoever she marries will have something to him." "I devoutly hope so!" said Mrs. Pomfret.
She did not share Rangely's mistake of supposing that Ethel would marry him, yet it was distinctly her intention that Miss Mott should not have the satisfaction of undeceiving him, but that Fred should carry through life the regretful and tantalizing conviction that he had thrown away this chance.
Rangely's talk struck him as not entirely genuine, but he was to some extent enlightened when his cousin said to him afterward: "Frances Rangely has the imitation Boston patter at her tongue's end now, but she is too thoroughly a New Yorker ever to get the spirit of it. She rattles off the words in a way that is intensely amusing."
Since you know you are too good-natured not to oblige me in the end, why should you not do it gracefully and get the credit of being willing." And then, being a wise woman, she disregarded Rangely's muttered remonstrance and turned the conversation into a new channel. THIS IS NOT A BOON. Othello; iii. 3.
His cousin wore the same delicately satirical air which marked all her intercourse with him. She carried her head with her accustomed good-humored haughtiness, and her straight lips were curled into the ghost of a smile. "This is the most stupid humbug of them all," she remarked, as they neared Mrs. Rangely's house on Marlborough Street.
"I dare say," he observed, as if speaking at random, "that one of your clever professional writers would be able, for instance, to give the reader quite an inside view even in church matters." Rangely's face changed, and he in turn altered his position by leaning his elbow against the heavy middle sash of the window.
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