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Updated: May 31, 2025
When they lunched under the shelter of some tumbled rocks a drifting rain blew across the desolation. "Jolly!" said James, but quite happily. Lingen shivered. "My dear man," said Urquhart, "just you wait. I'll surprise you in a quarter of an hour's time." He spoke in his old way, as hectoring whom he tolerated. James noticed it, and was amused.
She did not look forward to leaving him on the morrow, and as good as said so. "I have been enchanted here," she said, "and hate the thought of London. But James won't hear of Wycross in June. He loves the world." Urquhart said, "What are you going to do in August? Wycross?" "No, we never go there in August. It's too hot And there's Lancelot. A boy must have excitement.
His letters became her chief preoccupation. But James's star, fallen low though it were, still showed a faint hue of rose-colour. Some little time after this somewhere in early February, she met Urquhart at a luncheon party, and was glad to see him. He shook hands in his usual detached way, as if her gladness and their acquaintance were matters of course.
It had been his first impulse to assure the poor chap that he knew all about it; but a right instinct stopped him. He would have to hear it. So Urquhart began his plain tale, and as he got into it the contrast between it and himself became revolting, even to him. A hale man might have brazened it out with a better air.
Urquhart never seemed to mind being ordered about by Lucy. And Lucy, of course, had accepted him as an intimate friend from the first, because Peter had said she was to, and because, as she remarked, he was so astonishingly nice to look at and to listen to.
Francis Lingen, absurd! Mr. Urquhart? Ah, that was quite another thing. She grew hot, she grew quite cold, and suddenly she began to sob. Oh, no, no, not that. A flood of tossing thoughts came rioting and racing in, flinging crests of foam, like white and beaten water. She for a time was swept about, a weed in this fury of storm. She was lost, effortless, at death's threshold.
Then he laughed a little. The contrast of Hilary's tragedian air and Urquhart's tranquil boredom was upsetting to him. Urquhart didn't laugh, but looked at him enquiringly. "It's certainly funny rather," he said quietly. "You must have got a good deal of quiet fun out of compiling that column." "Oh," said Peter. "But I didn't, you know." "I gather you helped supplied much of the information.
He sees a horse between a pair of shafts in a country lane; looks at it; says 'That's good. That would have a fair chance for the Grand National' Urquhart buys it for fifty pounds straight away and it does win the Grand National. And he knows nothing special about horses, either. That's what I call genius.
Peter took it off and fished it out with a spoon, and began rummaging for an egg-cup and salt and marmalade and buns in the locker beneath his window seat. Having found these things, he composed himself in the fat arm-chair to dine, with a sigh of satisfaction. "You slacker," Urquhart observed. "Well, can you come to-morrow? The drag starts at eleven."
A 'frugal swain' means a harassed wife. Now, confess. Would you have me board? I believe I would do it if you asked me...." Not very exciting, all this; but if you want implications ! It was while this was going on that Lancelot, hovering and full of purpose, annexed Urquhart.
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