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Updated: May 18, 2025
She didn't, in the first place, so much as know who he was by which he meant know who and what it was to be a White-Mason, even a poor and a dear and old one, "anyway."
Worthingham looked while answering at White-Mason. "I didn't want you to go which you see you do as soon as he speaks to you. But I never dreamed !" "That there was anything between us? Ah, there are no end of things!" He, on his side, though addressing the younger and prettier woman, looked at his fellow-guest; to whom he even continued: "When did you get back?
"She didn't?" ah the right things Cornelia said to him! But before she could answer he was studying again closely the small faded face. "No, she doesn't, she doesn't. Oh, her charming sad eyes and the way they say that, across the years, straight into mine! But I don't know, I don't know!" White-Mason quite comfortably sighed. His companion appeared to appreciate this effect.
The incongruous object was a woman's head, crowned with a little sparsely feathered black hat, an ornament quite unlike those the women mostly noticed by White-Mason were now "wearing," and that grew and grew, that came nearer and nearer, while it met his eyes, after the manner of images in the kinematograph.
"Am I, ridiculous old person! in love with her?" White-Mason asked. "I may be a ridiculous old person," Cornelia returned "and, for that matter, of course I am! But she's young and lovely and rich and clever: so what could be more natural?" "Oh, I was applying that opprobrious epithet !" He didn't finish, though he meant he had applied it to himself.
So, in the windless, sun-warmed air of the beautiful afternoon, the Park of the winter's end had struck White-Mason as waiting; even New York, under such an impression, was "good," good enough for him; its very sounds were faint, were almost sweet, as they reached him from so seemingly far beyond the wooded horizon that formed the remoter limit of his large shallow glade.
"Oh but," she pleaded, "we can't all be really old." "No, we can't, Cornelia. But you can !" said White-Mason with the frankest appreciation. She looked up at him from where she sat as he could imagine her looking up at the curate at Bognor. "Thank you, sir! If that's all you want !" "It is" he said, "all I want or almost."
Oh, the "know" Mrs. Worthingham was in it, all instinctively, inevitably, and as a matter of course, up to her eyes; which didn't, however, the least little bit prevent her being as ignorant as a fish of everything that really and intimately and fundamentally concerned him, poor dear old White-Mason.
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