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Wotton was master of profound dissimulation, and knew how to cover, under the appearance of a careless gayety, the deepest designs and most dangerous artifices. When but a youth of twenty, he had been employed by his uncle, Dr.
For a time the Master of the Earth was not even master of his own mind. Even his will seemed a will not his own, his own acts surprised him and were but a part of the confusion of strange experiences that poured across his being. These things were definite, the aeroplanes were coming, Helen Wotton had warned the people of their coming, and he was Master of the Earth.
Wotton, Bachelor of Divinity, in his incomparable treatise of ancient and modern learning; a book never to be sufficiently valued, whether we consider the happy turns and flowings of the author's wit, the great usefulness of his sublime discoveries upon the subject of flies and spittle, or the laborious eloquence of his style.
"I want to see your missis," said Mr. Davis, fiercely. "What for?" demanded the girl. "You tell 'er," said Mr. Davis, inserting his foot just in time, "you tell 'er that there's two gentlemen here what have brought 'er news of her husband, and look sharp about it." "They was cast away with 'im," said Mr. Wotton. "On a desert island," said Mr. Davis.
Davis's face brightened. "And a watch and chain too," he said. "And smoke your cigar of a Sunday," said Mr. Wotton, "and have a easy- chair and a glass for a friend." Mr. Davis almost smiled, and then, suddenly remembering his wasted twenty years, shook his head grimly over the friendship that attached itself to easy-chairs and glasses of ale, and said that there was plenty of it about.
John Evelyn, English country gentleman, courtier, diarist, and miscellaneous author, was born at Wotton, in Surrey, on October 31, 1620, and was educated at Lewes, and then at Balliol College, Oxford. He then lived at the Middle Temple, London; but after the death of Strafford, disliking the unsettled state of England, he spent three months in the Low Countries.
To live in the household of a learned foreigner, as Robert Sidney did with Sturm, or Henry Wotton with Hugo Blotz, was of course especially desirable.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddlebags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters of Tokio who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion.
Wotton having departed from the Duke, assumed the name and language of an Italian, which he spoke so fluently, and with so little mixture of a foreign dialect, that he could scarcely be distinguished from a native of Italy; and thinking it best to avoid the line of English intelligence and danger, posted into Norway, and through that country towards Scotland, where he found the King at Stirling.
"If you'd only got a copper or two we could ride; it's down Clapham way." Mr. Wotton smiled feebly, and after going carefully through his pockets shook his head and followed his friend outside. "I wonder whether she'll be pleased?" he remarked, as they walked slowly along. "She might be women are funny creatures so faithful.
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