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Updated: June 16, 2025
They were obliged to pass the Terrasse on their way home: there, alone, under the shadow of the palms, sat Armand de Châteaumesnil. The invalid's great haggard eyes fixed themselves observantly on Cecil Tresilyan as she went by. He laid his hand on the major's sleeve when he came to his side, and said, in a hoarse whisper, "Qu'as tu fait donc, pour l'atterrer ainsi?"
"The mother really was ill," Molyneux said, apologetically; "at least she died soon after that. Miss Tresilyan has never shown much since. But you've no idea of the sensation she made during her season and a half. They called her The Refuser, she had such a fabulous number of offers, and wouldn't look at any of them. By-the-by, there's rather a good story about that. You know Margate?
She might have sat musing thus for about an hour; so deep in thought that she never heard the portière slowly drawn aside that divided the room from an ante-chamber. The Tresilyan had her emotions under tolerable control, and at least was not given to screaming; but she could hardly repress the startled cry that sprang to her lips when she raised her eyes.
Even Royston Keene shivered at the low terror-stricken whisper in which these last words were spoken. He gave the promise though, and remembered it occasionally till the time for keeping it came. The major had been spending the evening with Cecil Tresilyan, making arrangements for a pic-nic that was to take place two days later. He had had a passage-of-arms or two with Mrs.
They were talking over their preparations for the moors, for they were going to start the next day. I thought there was something. You haven't proposed to The Tresilyan. They say Margate's face was a study. He never disputed the orders of his private trainer, so he only said, piteously, 'But I don't want to marry any one, and looked as if he was going to cry.
The gray manor-house guards its secrets well, though it has witnessed in its time sorrows and sins that might have wrung a voice from granite. Conscious of many broken hearts and blasted hopes, is the home of the Tresilyans of Tresilyan. I confess to a certain regret, as that graceful figure vanishes from the stage that never was worthy of her queen-like presence.
He took the first opportunity of beseeching Miss Tresilyan to be allowed to act as her escort: it was customary on all these expeditions that each dame and demoiselle, besides the professional muleteer, should be attended by at least one "dismounted skirmisher."
Of course he feels deeply injured, and would have forgiven the absentee far more easily if the latter had beaten him fairly, on his merits, breasting the handkerchief first by half a dozen yards. On this principle, Miss Tresilyan labored all that evening under an impression that Keene had treated her very ill, and was prepared to resent it accordingly.
The first half of them he carried out perfectly: he did go straight to Cecil Tresilyan, and tell her of his intentions to depart. She did not betray much of her disappointment or surprise, but she argued with so fascinating a casuistry against the necessity of such a sudden step, that it was no wonder if she soon convinced her hearer of the propriety of at least delaying it.
How they reveled through the summer night, And by day made lanceshafts flee, For Mary Beatoun, and Mary Seatoun, And Mary Fleming, and me. Will this long and rather rash tirade in the least excuse Cecil Tresilyan? Of course not. My poor heroine!
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