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Updated: June 26, 2025
He threw Stanistreet's flowers out of the window, put Molly's note up in its envelope and sent it to the post. Then he sat down to think. Mrs. Nevill Tyson's room was opposite the one she had just left. She stood for a moment before her looking-glass, studying her own reflection. She took off her pearl necklace and spanned her white throat with her tiny hands. And as she looked she was glad.
I don't see much harm in that, you know. Anyhow, he can't very well do it again now. Perhaps she thought I oughtn't to have gone about quite so much with Louis." "Why did you, Molly? It was a mistake." "I wonder Well, it was all my fault." "No; it was Stanistreet's. He knew what he was about." "It was mine. I liked him." "What did you see to like in him?"
Nevill Tyson tripping, at any rate to prove that she must trip. At first Fate merely willed that Sir Peter should take a journey up to town. Sir Peter's serviceable tweed suit, that had lasted him a good five years, was beginning to go at the corners. We know Stanistreet's opinion of Sir Peter's taste in dress; it was only a coarser expression of the views held by his wife.
At Thorneytoft a few hours later Stanistreet's tongue was running on as usual, when Tyson pulled him up with a jerk. "Hold hard. Do you know you're talking about the future Mrs. Nevill Tyson?" Stanistreet tried to keep calm, for he was poised on his waist across the edge of the billiard-table. As it was, he lost his balance at the critical moment, and it ruined his stroke.
Stanistreet enquired drily. "Monsieur!" "Oh, damn your play-acting, sir! If you can be capable of one infamy, you are capable of more. None the less, you are right about an Englishman's word: here is your money. Count it and get out!" "Thanks" the impostor's tone was an impertinently exact imitation of Stanistreet's "I mean to."
The idea of leaving England had occurred to Tyson more than once before. In Stanistreet's rooms it took its first vague shape. But Louis's parting words had a sting in them; they were at once a shock to his feelings and a challenge to his will. Stanistreet had read him thoroughly. In plain language he had entertained serious thoughts of deserting Mrs. Nevill Tyson. Desertion? It was an ugly word.
Stanistreet's eyes protruded alarmingly, and his face grew very red before he found breath enough to ejaculate: "God bless my soul!" Breathing hard, he accepted the necklace from Cecelia's hands. "I must excuse me I must tell my sister-in-law about this immediately!" He turned and trotted hastily back into the house. Crane lingered but a moment longer.
He had followed her to the "Criterion"; he had hurried out before the end of the piece, and hung about Ridgmount Gardens till he had seen her homecoming. Stanistreet's immediate departure was a relief to a certain anxiety that he was base enough to feel. And still there remained a vague suspicion and discomfort. He had to begin all over again with her.
The Master stroked his mustache and meditated. There was a malignity about Stanistreet's humor conceivable enough if there was any truth in history. It struck Stanistreet that his feeble jest met with an amount of attention out of all proportion to its merits. Sir Peter was the first to recover himself. "Your friend may buy his horses by the yard, but he doesn't ride like a tailor.
Nevill Tyson set her teeth with a determined air, planted her feet firmly on the floor of the trap to give herself a good purchase; she gave the reins a little twist as she had seen Stanistreet do, she balanced the whip like a fishing-rod, with the line dangling over Scarum's ears, and then she rattled away over the wrinkling roads at a glorious pace; she reeled over cart-ruts, she went thump over sods and bump over mud-heaps, she grazed walls and hedges, skimmed over the brink of ditches, careened round corners, and tore past most things on the wrong side; and Stanistreet's sense of deadly peril was lost in the pleasure of seeing her do it.
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