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"It will be bliss, madam, to call myself your daughter's husband," said Storri; "but it will be highest honor to find myself your son." Storri did not tell Mrs. Hanway-Harley of those afternoon calls, and the blight of Bess to fall upon them with her eternal crops and politics and populations. Mrs.
This in the White House the palace of their President! Storri was more and more convinced that the Americans were a rabble and not a people! "Remember!" said Richard, and the tones were like a threat of death. That evening, early, Richard met Dorothy at Bess Marklin's. He made no revelations touching his colloquy with Storri.
Dorothy would have been proud to proclaim her troth from the house-tops. Mrs. Hanway-Harley had Storri to dinner. Dorothy, when he was announced, sought her room. A moment later, Mrs. Hanway-Harley was at the door. She came in cool, collected, no trace of anger. Why did not Dorothy come down to dinner? Dorothy did not come down to dinner because Dorothy did not choose. "You do not ask Mr.
It was four in the afternoon when the Zulu Queen came up the river, and under quarter speed crept in and anchored within one thousand feet of the mouth of Storri's drain. Perhaps, of all the folk in Washington, no more than three remarked the advent of the Zulu Queen; one of these was Storri, one the San Reve, and one Inspector Val.
Harley as excuse, and making a pretense of having business with him, he could break in at all manner of queer hours. Storri made a study of the Harley household. About four of the afternoon it was Mrs. Hanway-Harley's habit to retire and refresh herself with a nap, against the demands of dinner and what social gayeties might follow. Mr.
Storri hung in the door, and the white of his cravat was not so white as his face. He could neither go nor stay, neither speak nor do; craven to the heart, he quailed before the stormy San Reve. An artist might have painted him as the Genius of Cowardice. "Good-night, my Storri," said the San Reve, her voice mournfully sweet. HOW THEY TALKED POLITICS AT MR. GWYNN's
At this seductive rate, it was no more than a matter of ten days before Mr. Harley went quoting his friend Storri; he had that titled Slav to dinner, when the latter became as much the favorite with Mrs. Hanway-Harley as he was with her ruder spouse.
By squeezing out his last drop of credit, he succeeded in gathering those thousands; once gathered, he tossed them into the pool's fund as carelessly as though they had been nothing more than the common furniture of his pocket, without which he would not think of beginning the day. Storri at least was a magnificent actor.
Harley caught the picture of it, might have made him feel uneasy. However, Mr. Harley was not looking at Storri. He was thinking on ending the interview as quickly and conveniently as he might, and hurrying posthaste to those speculative ones. "Why did I bring you here to-night?" asked Storri at last. "Northern Consolidated, I suppose," said Mr. Harley, looking up.
I've told you that your share is to be a million." "One thirtieth?" said London Bill, with the ring of complaint in his voice. "One thirtieth," returned Storri with emphasis. "Where else can you get one million for ten weeks' digging and a six-months' cruise in a yacht? Besides, there will be a dozen others to share; to say nothing of the yacht, and what it costs to coal her and buy her stores.
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