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Updated: June 13, 2025
Miss Naylor and the girls were sitting in the shade, reading La Fontaine's fables. Greta, with one eye on her governess, was stealthily cutting a pig out of orange peel. "Ah! my dear dears!" began Herr Paul, who in the presence of Miss Naylor always paraded his English.
Naylor has him in his clutches, the Craven forwards come like a deluge on the spot, our forwards pour over the Craven, and in an instant our hero and the ball have vanished from sight under a heap of writhing humanity. "Down!" cries a half-choked voice, from the bottom of the heap.
I could always tell which of them was talking without looking for his name. Naylor had a polished style and a happy knack at felicitous metaphor; Norris's style was wholly without ornament, but enviably compact, lucid, and strong. But after all, Calder was the gem. He never spoke when sober, he spoke continuously when he wasn't.
Alec Naylor knit his brows, and once gave a little shiver, as he listened. Beaumaroy sat quite still, the expression in his eyes unaltered, or, if altered at all, it grew softer, as though with pity or affection. "Good God, Beaumaroy, are you keeping a lunatic in this house?" He might raise his voice as loud as he pleased now, it was drowned by that other. "I'm not keeping him, he's keeping me.
Burying her nose and lips in a rose, she sniffed. "Poor dear girl! It's such a pity his father is a " "A farmer," said a sleepy voice behind the rosebush. Miss Naylor leaped. "Greta! How you startled me! A farmer that is an an agriculturalist!" "A farmer with vineyards he told us, and he is not ashamed. Why is it a pity, Miss Naylor?" Miss Naylor's lips looked very thin.
"You two people look to me somehow as if you'd got a secret between you." "Perhaps we have! Mr. Naylor's a man of honor, Doctor Mary; a man who appreciates a situation, a man you can trust." Beaumaroy seemed very gay and happy now, disembarrassed of a load, and buoyant alike in walk and in spirit. "What do you say to letting Mr. Naylor just him nobody else into our secret?"
And the finer mind belonged to the finer soldier; that she knew, for Gertie had told her General Punnit's story, and, however much she might discount it as the tale of an elderly martinet, yet it stood for something, for something that could never be attributed to Alec Naylor. And yet, for her mind traveled back to her earlier talk by the tennis court, Beaumaroy had a conscience, had feelings.
At the annual convention of the association held in Camden in November the new officers elected were, second vice-president, Mrs. Robert P. Finley; corresponding secretary, Mrs. Bayard Naylor; recording secretary, Mrs. L. H. Cummings. All attention and action were centered on the approaching campaign.
"What an abominable woman!" her glance said. Naylor smiled a despairing acquiescence. The strangers chief mourners, heirs-at-law, owners now of the place wherein they stood looked round the bare brick walls of the little rotunda. Naylor examined it with interest too the old story was a quaint one. Mary stood at the back of the group, smiling triumphantly. How had he disposed of everything?
"And I agree," said Mrs. Ross. "We all agree," said the Misses Scott and Miss Jane Smyth. "We all think, dear," continued Mrs. Naylor, "that for the sake of any chivalrous ideas, quite worthy in themselves, it is a considerable pity for you to spoil your life. You are not the sort of child who could stand disgrace."
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