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Updated: June 14, 2025


Anne looked. "The little lamb " she said. Then she was silent, discerning in the man's face, bent over the sleeping child, the divine look of love and tenderness. She was silent, held by an old enchantment and an older vision; brooding on things dear and secret and long-forgotten. Though Thurston Square saw little of Mrs. Majendie, the glory of Mrs. Eliott's Thursdays remained undiminished.

The Eliotts belong to the old high merchant-families, the aristocracy of trade, whose wealth is mellowed and beautified by time. Three centuries met in Mrs. Eliott's drawing-room, harmonised by the gentle spirit of the place.

He too had his little weaknesses. Almost savagely determined in matters of business, at home he liked to sit in a chair and fondle the illusion of indifference. There was no part of Mr. Eliott's mental furniture that was not a fixture, yet he scorned the imputation of conviction. A hunted thing in his wife's drawing-room, Mr.

But the restlessness of the times has seized upon the other families, the Pooleys, the Gardners, the Eliotts, younger by a century at least. They utilise the perfect peace for the cultivation of their intellects. Every Thursday, towards half-past three, a wave of agreeable expectation, punctual, periodic, mounts on the stillness and stirs it. Thursday is Mrs. Eliott's day.

"I know nothing. I've hardly seen her." Miss Proctor looked as if she were seeing her that moment without Fanny Eliott's help. "Poor dear Anne." Anne Fletcher had been simply dear Anne, Mrs. Walter Majendie was poor dear Anne. Her friends were all sorry for her. They were inclined to be indignant with Edith Majendie, who, they declared, had been at the bottom of her marriage all along.

"May I speak with you a moment," he said, "before your other guests arrive?" Mrs. Eliott led him to a secluded sofa. "If you'll sit here," said she, "we can leave Johnson to entertain Miss Proctor." "I am perplexed and distressed," said the Canon, "about our dear Mrs. Majendie." Mrs. Eliott's eyes darkened with anxiety. She clasped her hands. "Oh why? What is it?

"It can't be pleasant, any way, my dear." "Do advise me, Johnson. Ought I or ought I not to tell her?" Mr. Eliott's face told how his nature shrank from the agony of decision. But he was touched by her distress. "Certainly not. Much better let well alone." "If I were only sure that it was well I was letting alone." "Can't be sure of anything. Give it the benefit of the doubt."

Eliott would have been scandalised if she had known the real Dr. Gardner's opinion of her. "I wonder," said she, "what will become of Anne's ideal." "It's safe," said the doctor. "She hasn't realised it." "I wonder, then, what will become of Anne." Mrs. Pooley retreated altogether before this gross application of transcendent truth. She had not come to Mrs. Eliott's to talk about Mrs. Majendie.

Captain Langton told the story, that evening, at General Eliott's dinner table; and said that although it was certainly a good joke, against himself, that he should have thus assisted a privateer to carry off two valuable prizes that had slipped through the frigate's hands, the story was too good not to be told.

Eliott's face with an inquisitive gaze, "how our friends, the Majendies, are getting on?" "Oh, as usual. I see very little of her now. Anne is quite taken up with her little girl and with her good works." "Oh! That," said Miss Proctor, "was a most unsuitable marriage." It was five o'clock. The Canon and Miss Proctor had drunk their two cups of tea and departed. Mrs.

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