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Updated: May 10, 2025
"My poor Julia, it isn't extremely fine; it isn't fine at all," Sherringham returned with some irritation. "Pardon me then. I thought that was why you invited us." "I imagined she was different," Peter said a little foolishly. "Ah if you don't care for her so much the better. It has always seemed to me you make too awfully much of those people." "Oh I do care for her too rather.
Julia at any rate believes it can be made to if the man's Nick and is ready to take the order to put him in." "I'm sure if she can do it she will," Grace pronounced. "Dear, dear Julia! And Nick can do something for himself," said the mother of this candidate. "I've no doubt he can do anything," Peter Sherringham returned good-naturedly. Then, "Do you mean in expenses?" he inquired.
He had not written to his young friend that he was coming to England and would call upon her at eleven o'clock in the morning, because it was his secret pride that he had ceased to correspond with her. Sherringham took his prudence where he could find it, and in doing so was rather like a drunkard who should flatter himself he had forsworn liquor since he didn't touch lemonade.
Was this succession of phases a sign she was really a case of the celebrated artistic temperament, the nature that made people provoking and interesting? That Sherringham himself was of this shifting complexion is perhaps proved by his odd capacity for being of two different minds very nearly at the same time. Miriam was pretty now, with felicities and graces, with charming, unusual eyes.
But there are two excellent baignoires d'avant-scène, which indeed are by no means always to be had. It was, however, into one of them that, immediately after his return to Paris, Sherringham ushered Mrs. Rooth and her daughter, with the further escort of Basil Dashwood.
But perhaps he won't have me as I'm not a member of Parliament." "It's my sister, rather, who has got him in." "Your sister who was at your house that day? What has she to do with it?" Miriam asked. "Why she's his cousin just as I am. And in addition," Sherringham went on, "she's to be married to him." "Married really?" She had a pause, but she continued. "So he paints her, I suppose?"
"Admirable, magnificent, go on," Sherringham repeated "go on to the end of the scene, do it all!" Miriam's colour rose, yet he as quickly felt that she had no personal emotion in seeing him again; the cold passion of art had perched on her banner and she listened to herself with an ear as vigilant as if she had been a Paganini drawing a fiddle-bow.
Sherringham had his wonder about it, as a part of the attraction exerted by this young lady was that she caused him to have his wonder about everything she did. Was it in fact a conscious show, a line taken for effect, so that at the Comédie her own display should be the most successful of all?
"I don't mean for any individual exponent of the equivocal art: mark the guilty conscience, mark the rising blush, mark the confusion of mind! I mean the old sign one knew you best by; your permanent stall at the Français, your inveterate attendance at premières, the way you 'follow' the young talents and the old." "Yes, it's still my little hobby, my little folly if you like," Sherringham said.
Her laughter appeared partly addressed to the good faith with which Miriam described herself as preponderantly interested in the subtler problems of her art. Sherringham was charmed with the girl's pluck if it was pluck and not mere density; the stout patience with which she submitted, for a purpose, to the old woman's rough usage.
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