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Updated: June 20, 2025
It was Honora who went up to her with a calmness that awed them. "Tell me," she said, "is he dead?" Mrs. Rindge nodded, and broke into hysterical sobbing. "And I wanted to ride him myself," she sobbed, as they led her up the steps. In less than an hour they brought him home and laid him in the room in which he had slept from boyhood, and shut the door. Honora looked into his face.
"Have you forgotten already," she asked, smilingly, as she poured out her coffee, "that we are going to town together?" He readjusted his newspaper against the carafe. "How much do you think Mrs. Farnham or Mrs. Rindge is worth?" he asked. "I'm sure I don't know," she replied. "Old Marshall left her five million dollars." "What has that to do with it?" inquired Honora.
"I hope you're glad to see us, and that you'll forgive our coming so informally. You must blame Hugh. We've brought Adele." The second lady was, indeed, none other than Mrs. Eustace Rindge, formerly Mrs. Dicky Farnham. And she is worth even at this belated stage in our chronicle an attempted sketch, or at least an attempted impression.
I can do it so well," said Mr. Pembroke. "I hope you got what you like for breakfast," said Honora to the ladies. "Hurry up and come down, Adele," said Hugh, "if you want to look over the horses before lunch." "It's Georgie's fault," replied Mrs. Rindge; "he's been standing in the door of my sitting-room for a whole half-hour talking nonsense." A little later they all set out for the stables.
That's all I ask. What have you done to him, Honora, to put him in such a humour?" Honora laughed. "I hadn't noticed anything peculiar about him," she answered. "This boat reminds me of Adele," said Mrs. Shorter. "She loved it. I can see how she could get a divorce from Dicky but the 'Folly'! She told me yesterday that the sight of it made her homesick, and Eustace Rindge won't leave Paris."
"What do you call him?" asked Mrs. Rindge. "I haven't named him." "I'll give you a name." Chiltern looked at her. "What is it?" he said. "Oblivion," she replied: "By George, Adele," he exclaimed, "you have a way of hitting it off!" "Will you let me ride him this afternoon?" she asked. "I'm a a candidate for oblivion." She laughed a little and her eyes shone feverishly. "No you don't," he said.
Kame was of opinion that the sooner it was over with the better. All women were born to be disillusionized. Such was the key, at any rate, to the lady's conduct that evening at dinner, when she capped the anecdotes of Mr. Pembroke and Mrs. Rindge and even of Chiltern with others not less risque but more fastidiously and ingeniously suggestive. The reader may be spared their recital.
MARSHALL PINCKNEY WILDER, whose Christian names were given in honor of Chief-Justice Marshall and General Pinckney, eminent statesmen at the time he was born, was the eldest son of Samuel Locke Wilder, Esq., of Rindge, New Hampshire, and was born in that town, September 22, 1798.
Her feeling had not been the same about Mrs. Rindge: Mrs. Kame's actions savoured of deliberate choice, of an inherent and calculating wickedness. Had the distraction of others besides himself been the chief business of Mr. Pembroke's life, he could not have succeeded better that afternoon. He must be given this credit: his motives remain problematical; at length he even drew laughter from her.
"You knocked him into a cocked hat," said Hugh. "And if you'd been in that kimono, you could have done it even easier." "Georgie broke the whole whiskey service, or whatever it is," Mrs. Rindge went on, addressing Honora again. "He fell into it." "He's all right this morning," observed Mrs. Kame, critically. "I think I'll take to swallowing swords and glass and things in public.
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