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Updated: June 10, 2025
"I'm so sorry, Floss," said Rickman in a queer thick voice. She had turned her face towards him now, and its expression was inscrutable to him. To another man it would have said that it was all very well for him to be sorry; he could put a stop to it soon enough if he liked. "Oh you needn't be sorry." "Why not? Do you think I don't care?" Immense play of expression on Flossie's face.
He added with a smile, "besides your own?" "I'm a journalist." Rickman mentioned his connection with The Museion and The Planet. "Ah, I knew there was an unlucky star somewhere. Well, at any rate, you won't have to turn your Muse on to the streets to get your living. But a trade's better than a profession; and a craft's better than a trade. It doesn't monopolize the higher centres.
When a man goes through this sort of business it leaves its mark on him somewhere." And indeed it seemed to have stamped an expression of permanent foolishness on Spinks's comely face. Rickman smiled even while he sympathized. "Yes, I daresay. I'm sorry, old man; but if I were you I wouldn't be too down in the mouth.
Spinks sat down on a chair and watched him, his fresh, handsome face clouded with anxiety. He adored Rickman sober; but for Rickman drunk he had a curious yearning affection. If anything, he preferred him in that state. It seemed to bring him nearer to him. Spinks had never been drunk in his life, but that was his feeling. Rickman laid his arms upon the window sill and his head upon his arms.
Did she adore Rickman? "You're a little hard on me, I think. After all, I was the first to help him." "And the last. Are you quite sure you helped him? How do you know you didn't hinder him? You kept him for years turning out inferior work for you, when he might have been giving us his best." "He might if he'd been alive to do it." "I'm only thinking of what you might have done.
Downey abandoned her policy of silence. "Some day," said Mrs. Downey, "Mr. Rickman will be in a very different position to wot he is now. You mark my words." Two tears rolled down Mrs. Downey's face and mingled with the tartan of her blouse. A murmur of sympathy went round the room, and Mr.
"You were quite right," she was saying. "I am tired, and I had better leave off. If you had rather stay and finish, please stay." At those words Mr. Rickman was filled with a monstrous and amazing courage. He made for the door, crossing without a tremor the whole length of the library. He reached the door before Miss Harden, and opened it.
"You've stood them for five years," said she. "Yes, but I've had my work, and I'm used to it; and in any case I'm not Miss Lucia Harden." "Mr. Rickman stands them." "Does he? You wouldn't say so if you'd known him for five years." "I wonder why he stayed." "Do you? Perhaps Miss Flossie could enlighten you." "Of course. I was forgetting her."
He remembered how once on an April day, a year ago, the disciple had turned at the call of woman and of the world, the call of the Spring in his heart and in his urgent blood. And yet this was not that Rickman either. "My dear Rickman, I don't understand. Are you talking about the world? Or the flesh? Or the devils?" "All of them, if you like.
"I wish I had," said Rickman, and his tone implied that he appreciated the painfulness of the subject. There was a pause which Rickman broke by congratulating Jewdwine on his appointment. This he did with a very pretty diffidence and modesty, which smoothed over the awkwardness of the transition, if indeed it did not convey an adroit suggestion of the insignificance of all other affairs.
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