Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 11, 2025
"Oh, Wub, what have I done that you should treat me so?" Sir Charles Hardiman, watchful of the duel, guessed from the movement of her lips what she was saying. "These nicknames are the very devil," he exclaimed, apparently about nothing, to his startled neighbour. "The first thing a woman does when she's fond of a man is to give him some ridiculous name, which doesn't belong to him.
"Oh, Wub, what a cruel mistake you made when you went out of your way to be kind," she cried, with the tears streaming down her face; and Luttrell winced. "Yes, that's true," he admitted remorsefully. "I never dreamed what would come of it." "You should have left me alone." Amongst the flickering pictures of the year the first was the clearest.
For after dinner Harry Luttrell, of his own will, came straight to her in the drawing-room. "Oh, Wub," she said in a whisper as she drew her skirt aside to make room for him upon the couch. "Oh, Wub, what years it is since I have seen you." When the old nickname fell upon Harry's ears, he looked quickly about him to see where Joan Whitworth sat. But she was at the other end of the room.
"Yes, it is a long time." "Stockholm!" said Stella, dwelling upon the name. She lowered her voice. "Wub, I suffered terribly after you went away. Oh, it wasn't a good time. No, it wasn't!" "Stella, I am very sorry," he said gently. He knew himself this day the glories and the pangs of love.
"Mario Escobar." Joan repeated the name with such a violence of scorn that for a moment Stella Croyle was silenced. "Mario Escobar!" "He was here with you a moment ago." Joan answered quietly and quite distinctly: "I wish he were dead!" Stella Croyle fell back upon her first declaration. "You must leave my Wub alone." Joan laughed aloud, harshly and without any merriment.
"Of course, Wub, I have always known that you never cared for me as I do for you. So it was bound to end some time." She caught his hand to her heart for a second, and then, dropping it, ran from his side. Late in the autumn of the following year a new play, written by Martin Hillyard and named "The Dark Tower," was produced at the Rubicon Theatre in Panton Street, London.
Might she not open it again, some time, with another at her side? "Wub, tell me what you have been doing all these years," she said. He began the tale of them in the short, reluctant, colloquial phrases which the English use to strip their achievements of any romantic semblance until Millicent Splay sailed across the room and claimed him for a table of bridge.
"Wub" was the nickname within the nickname, the cherished sign that the two of them lived apart in a little close-hedged garden of their own. Luttrell's eyes were upon her as she spoke it. And she spoke it with a curious little wistful pursing of soft lips so that it came to him winged with the memory of all her kisses. "Oh, Wub, must you leave me?" she pleaded in a breaking whisper.
Your Wub!" she cried in a heat. "Yes, I am only twenty, and probably I am quite wrong and stupid. But it seems to me horrible that we two women should be wrangling over a man neither of us had met a week ago. I'll have no more of it." She flung towards the window, but Stella Croyle cried out, "A week ago!" and the cry brought her to a stop. Joan turned and looked doubtfully at Mrs. Croyle.
She checked herself with an effort lest she should go on laughing, and her laughter turn uncontrollably into hysteria and tears. Here was Mrs. Croyle, a grown woman, standing in front of her like a mutinous obstinate child, looking like one too, talking like one and bidding Joan leave her Wub alone. Whence did she get that ridiculous name? It was all degrading and grotesque. "Your Wub!
Word Of The Day
Others Looking