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Updated: May 18, 2025
'You say you have no prospects? I should have supposed that your uncle ? Surely, with his influence ? 'My uncle shot his bolt when he got me into the bank. That finished him, as far as I'm concerned. I'm not his only nephew, you know. There are about a hundred others, all trailing him like bloodhounds. Mr Sheppherd coughed the small cough of disapproval.
They might have been sheppherd and sheppherdess on a May-day wooing, for the halting way in which their words came. "You're all right?" he went on. "You're happy?" "Yes, very," she said. Her eyes were downcast. He did not believe her, the effort in her voice, her drawn, white face belied her words. How COULD he get the truth from her? "Jim said you might not want to see me." She started.
He looks as if he had never even thought of doing anything he shouldn't. I wonder if he ever has? 'I wonder! said Martin. 'He looks like a stout angel. What were you saying, Martin, when he came up? Owen Bentley was feeling embarrassed. He looked at Mr Sheppherd, and with difficulty restrained himself from standing on one leg and twiddling his fingers.
He was feeling more than a little aggrieved. He had met Owen for the first time at dinner at the house of his uncle Henry, a man of unquestioned substance, whose habit it was to invite each of his eleven nephews to dinner once a year. But Mr Sheppherd did not know this. For all he knew, Owen was in the habit of hobnobbing with the great man every night.
Owen plunged on with his story. He started from its dim beginning, from the days when he had bought the novel on his journey from Bath to Cheltenham. He described his methods of work, his registering of the package, his suspense, his growing resignation. He sketched the progress of his life. He spoke of Audrey and gave a crisp character-sketch of Mr Sheppherd.
And now, as he began to explain to Mr Sheppherd that he wished for his consent to marry his daughter Audrey, he found himself suffering exactly the same symptoms. From the very start, from the moment when he revealed the fact that his income, salary and private means included, amounted to less than two hundred pounds, he had realized that this was going to be one of his failures.
It was the gruesome Early Victorianness of it all that took the heart out of him. Mr Sheppherd had always reminded him of a heavy father out of a three-volume novel, but, compared with his demeanour as he listened now, his attitude hitherto had been light and whimsical. Until this moment Owen had not imagined that this sort of thing ever happened nowadays outside the comic papers.
If another woman had helped you make a lot of money, I should have died of jealousy. Routine is death to heroism. For the first few days after his parting with Mr Sheppherd, Owen was in heroic mood, full of vaguely dashing schemes, regarding the world as his oyster, and burning to get at it, sword in hand.
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