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Updated: May 29, 2025
Sherard and his wife were together. Steadying himself against a post he took aim at the trembling figure of his wife, and fired. She threw up her arms and fell upon her face, and then Sherard, pistol in hand, dashed out and met him. Ere he could draw the trigger, Prout swung the heavy weapon round, and the stock crashed into the traitor's brain.
He was coming to them according to old-established custom to dinner on Christmas Day, and Miss Sherard was coming down for the week, and whom else would Jane like to ask for Christmas? Miss Abingdon was a staunch upholder of familiar customs. There was a certain ritual to be observed during Christmas week, and Miss Abingdon observed it.
'Kitty Sherard certainly, she said, and put the name down on the tablet. 'She 's some one's niece, isn't she? said Peter. 'She 's every one's niece, I think, replied Jane. 'Rather rough luck on Miss Sherard, said Peter. 'It's a fact, though, Jane went on. 'Really and truly, Aunt Mary, each of her relations married about ten times, and then the next generation married each other.
Kitty Sherard was bridesmaid and never cried at all. She wore rose-colour, and carried Jane's bouquet, and during the whole of the long day she smiled and was admired, and behaved as a bridesmaid in rose-colour should. It is a comforting supposition, which many people hold as a belief, that there are guardian angels, or spirits, which watch round the beds of those who weep.
She found herself at tea-time sitting next Canon Wrottesley, whose patriarchal mood seemed to her unnecessarily affected, and she requested him to ask Miss Sherard to come and speak to her. 'Kitty amuses me, she said, with one of her characteristic shrugs, 'and most people are so dull, are they not? Canon Wrottesley felt that mixed sensation which association with Mrs.
But I won't turn you out altogether; you must remain there too." Sherard laughed. "Not I. You'll be far happier up there together by yourselves, like a pair of turtledoves. But I'll always be on hand in the smoking-room when you want me for a game of cards."
Miss Sherard was in a wilful mood this morning a mood which, let it be said at once, was one to which she was often subject, but it had been more than usually apparent in her for the last few days.
I repeated drily that I had come to take Oscar to lunch. "I know you have," he said, "and it's most kind of you; but he can't go." "Why not?" I asked as I went in. Oscar was gloomy, depressed, and evidently suffering. Willie's theatrical insincerity had annoyed me a little, and I was eager to get away. Suddenly I saw Sherard, who has since done his best for Oscar's memory.
It heralded the arrival of Sherard Blaw, the dramatist who had discovered himself, and who had given so ungrudgingly of his discovery to the world. Lady Caroline, who was already directing little conversational onslaughts from her box, gazed gently for a moment at the new arrival, and then turned to the silver-haired Archdeacon sitting beside her.
That is the great delusion of you would-be advanced satirists; you imagine you can sit down comfortably for a couple of decades saying daring and startling things about the age you live in, which, whatever other defects it may have, is certainly not standing still. The whole of the Sherard Blaw school of discursive drama suggests, to my mind, Early Victorian furniture in a travelling circus.
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