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"That's nothing," she assured him, "for I save you a quarter every day, by taking Joe's place as reader to Your Highness, not to mention the high tariff on the Sunday papers. Besides, the manuscripts are all in now." "I'm glad to hear that," he replied, sitting down on the piazza. "Do you know, Miss Thorne, I think there's a great deal of joyous excitement attached to the pursuit of literature.
"I know you will; I know you will. Oh! doctor, may you never feel as I do now! May you on your death-bed have no dread as I have, as to the fate of those you will leave behind you!" Doctor Thorne felt that he could not say much in answer to this. The future fate of Louis Scatcherd was, he could not but own to himself, greatly to be dreaded.
Any further conversation between these congenial souls was prevented by the advent of Mr Thorne, who came to lead the countess to the tent. Indeed, he had been desired to do so some ten minutes since; but he had been delayed in the drawing-room by the signora. She had contrived to detain him, to bet him near to her sofa, and at last to make him seat himself on a chair close to her beautiful arm.
The necessary order was procured, and on a certain brilliant April afternoon, Mrs Thorne and her party found themselves in this nobleman's drawing-room. Lily was with her, of course, and Emily Dunstable was there, and Bernard Dale, and Mrs Thorne's dear friend Mrs Harold Smith, and Mrs Thorne's constant and useful attendant, Siph Dunn.
He had within him something of the feeling of Cato, who gloried that he could kill himself because Romans were no longer worthy of their name. Mr. Thorne had no thought of killing himself, being a Christian and still possessing his L4000 a year, but the feeling was not on that account the less comfortable. Mr. Thorne was a sportsman, and had been active though not outrageous in his sports.
The signora gave him back his own, as the saying is, and more with it, so that the young nobleman was forced to avert his glance and drop his glass. "I say, Thorne," whispered he, "who the deuce is that on the sofa?" "Dr. Stanhope's daughter," whispered back Mr. Thorne. "Signora Neroni, she calls herself." "Whew ew ew!" whistled the Honourable George. "The devil she is.
"Why," explained the younger man, "always after supper Saturdays all the boys who are in camp go over to spend the evenin' at headquarters." Aggressively sleek and scrubbed, the little group marched down through the woods in the twilight. At headquarters Amy Thorne and her brother welcomed them and ushered them into the big room, with the stone fireplace.
In this respect Sir Louis was perhaps more keen-witted than Dr Thorne. Mary, when she saw the carriage, at once ran up to her own bedroom. The doctor, who had been with her in the drawing-room, went down to meet his ward, but as soon as he saw the cockade he darted almost involuntarily into his shop and shut the door.
The Last Chronicle of Barset is a really good tale which deserves to live, and the whole Crawley episode rises to the level of fine imaginative work. Doctor Thorne is a sound, pleasant, ingenious story from beginning to end. It has perhaps the best plot of all Trollope's books, and, singularly enough, it is the only plot which he admits not to be his own.
But, sir," Muller took the warrant the commissioner handed across the table to him. "May I not make it as easy as I can for Mr. Thorne I mean, bring him here with as little publicity as possible? His wife is with him in Venice." "Poor little woman, it's terrible! Do whatever you think best, Muller. You're a queer mixture.
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