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Updated: June 15, 2025
Had I not met with you it is rather more than probable that I should never have seen another dawn; so if if ever I can be of use to you, pray honor me so far; you can always hear of me at Burnham Hall, Pembry. Good-by, Mr. Vibart, I am going to her in all my rags for I am a man again." So I bade him good-by, and, sitting in the ditch, watched him stride away to his new life.
"I'll say it all over again for you, if you like," says Dicky, kindly; "but for nobody else." "Thanks, but later on," says Fabian, smiling. He is sitting near Portia, but not very near. Now Dicky, filled with a desire to converse with Miss Vibart, gets off his seat and flings himself on a rug at her feet.
Now, when she spoke thus, I laid down my pipe and stared, but, before I could get my breath, she began again, with curling lip and lashes that drooped disdainfully. "I quite understand that there can be no woman worthy of Mr. Peter Vibart she whom he would honor with marriage must be specially created for him!
At length he turned to Vibart and said abruptly: "I made straight for the middle of the road, didn't I? If there had been a runaway I should have stopped it?" Vibart looked at him in surprise. "You would have tried to, undoubtedly, unless I'd had time to drag you away." Mr. Carstyle straightened his narrow shoulders. "There was no hesitation, at all events? I I showed no signs of avoiding it?"
"Why, I'm a perfect olive-branch," he concluded, with his dry indulgent laugh; "the very babies stop crying at my approach I carry a sort of millennium about with me I'd make my fortune as an agent of the Peace Society. I shall go to the grave leaving that other man unconvinced!" Vibart walked back with him to Millbrook. On her doorstep they met Mrs.
Carstyle jump into the middle of the road, in front of the buggy. He stood there immovable, his arms extended, his legs apart, in an attitude of indomitable resistance. Almost at the same moment Vibart realized that the man in the buggy had his horses in hand. "They're not running!" Vibart shouted, springing into the road and catching Mr. Carstyle's alpaca sleeve.
"Gad, yes! her worshippers are legion, and chief among them his Royal Highness, and your cousin, Sir Maurice, who has actually had the temerity to enter the field as the Prince's avowed rival; no one but 'Buck' Vibart could be so madly rash!" "A most fortunate lady!" said I. "Mr. Vibart!" exclaimed my companion, cocking his battered hat and regarding me with a smouldering eye, "Mr.
"You are, I believe, unacquainted with your cousin, Sir Maurice Vibart?" he inquired. "I have never seen him," said I; "all my life has been passed either at school or the university, but I have frequently heard mention of him, nevertheless."
In a dingy office, with a single window looking out on a blank wall, he found Mr. Carstyle, in an alpaca coat, reading Montaigne. It evidently did not occur to him that Vibart had come on business, and the warmth of his welcome gave the young man a sense of furnishing the last word in a conjugal argument in which, for once, Mr. Carstyle had come off triumphant.
"I should say not, sir; it was I who funked it for you." Mr. Carstyle was silent: his head had dropped forward and he looked like an old man. "It was just my cursed luck again!" he exclaimed suddenly in a loud voice. For a moment Vibart thought that he was wandering; but he raised his head and went on speaking in more natural tones. "I daresay I appeared ridiculous enough to you just now, eh?
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