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Updated: May 7, 2025
The matter is of such importance that I make no apologies for suggesting this romantic proceeding! With love, yours affectionately, "P.S. Don't say a word to one of your family. Secrecy is absolutely essential." Ellen stood lost in perplexity. Rumors had reached her of Mr. Walkingshaw's recent eccentricity.
"'Pon my word, I don't know what he'd have done with it." She could not but admit that that, in fact, was just the difficulty. The cultivation of sentiment had not been included in Mr. Walkingshaw's youthful curriculum.
The particular portion of it to which Mr. Walkingshaw's attention was directed ran thus
She was forty-five, full-figured, though not yet precisely stout, dark-eyed, and irreproachably dressed. She was also irreproachably diplomatic. As the butler passed behind Mr. Walkingshaw's chair, his master arrested him by pointing to his glass. The vigilant Andrew bent forward in his seat. "Are you giving the system up?" he inquired, with his cross-examining smile.
In Andrew's eye lurked the same suggestion of criticism, and in his parent's some consciousness of this and not a little consequent irritation. They were the same height just under six feet and there was a decided resemblance between Mr. Walkingshaw's portly gait and Andrew's dignified carriage, but otherwise they were not much alike.
Walkingshaw's career, when he was most conspicuously an example to his fellow-citizens, revered by the young and applauded by the old, there were to be found certain austere critics who held that, for themselves, the character of Andrew presented the more chaste ideal. Whereas Andrew's pale round cheeks and solemn aspect were as reassuring as a plate of porridge.
"I don't think he'll get over it." She laid her hand upon his arm with a quick, involuntary gesture. "But what has happened? Tell me!" The wisdom of age and the shrewdness of youth twinkled together in Mr. Walkingshaw's eye, but he managed to retain a decorously solemn air. "You are really concerned this time?" "Of course! I I mean, naturally."
Walkingshaw and his son were residing at the Hotel Gigantique, that stately new pile in Piccadilly, so styled, it is understood, from the bills presented when you leave. On the morning after his evening spent with Charlie Munro, they met as usual at breakfast. Fortunately, the state of Mr. Walkingshaw's health did not in the least seem to justify the forebodings of his friend.
The fun of kicking his hat over the railings returned so forcibly that there spread over his ruddy face a smile which greatly surprised the wife of one of his most respected clients passing at that moment in her carriage. She too returned home to talk of Mr. Walkingshaw's curious demeanor in the public streets of his native city.
"Ye es," stammered Frank. "That's all settled, then." Mr. Walkingshaw began to laugh mysteriously. "I'd like to see Andrew's face when he learns I've gone!" "But aren't you going to tell him?" Mr. Walkingshaw's voice sank. "Not a word to any of them, Frank! You put my things into your cab without any one noticing; I'll say I'm going to the office; and we'll meet at the station.
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