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He was chatting in a corner with Ethel Mott, when Fred Rangely, whose successful novel had made him vastly the fashion that winter, joined them. "When wit and beauty get into a corner together," was Rangely's salutation, "there is sure to be mischief brewing." "It isn't at all kind," Miss Mott retorted, "for you to emphasize the fact that Mr. Fenton has all the wit and I not any."
"If my husband, who you say is nothing to us, were here," she said, "he would horsewhip you." The other laughed savagely. "He is not here, however, so you may digest my remark at your leisure." Mrs. Wilson rose from her seat with an air of dignity which was really imposing. "Mr. Rangely," she said, "it is not my custom to bandy words, even with my equals.
She had a pleasant consciousness that afternoon, of sharing in the attention which Rangely received in public nowadays, especially since his novel had been violently attacked in the London Spectator and defended in the Saturday Review. She noted the glances that were cast at him, receiving their homage with a certain secret feeling of having a share in it.
Pomfret, whom he had met at his uncle's seat in Devonshire, and about Mr. Crewe and the railroads in politics. Many of these Victoria parried, and she came rapidly to the conclusion that Mr. Arthur Rangely was a more astute person than to a casual observer he would seem.
Victoria, after leaving Euphrasia, made her way around the house towards Mr. Rangely, who was waiting in the runabout, her one desire for the moment being to escape. Before she had reached the sidewalk under the trees, Dr. Tredway had interrupted her. "Miss Flint," he called out, "I wanted to say a word to you before you went." "Yes," she said, stopping and turning to him.
"Yes; and a fatal one. No man can be wholly great who understands only one half of human impulses." "But what do you mean by wickedness?" demanded Herman, a little combatively. "Oh," laughed Rangely, "I'm not to be entrapped into giving metaphysical and theological definitions. I mean what we are expected to call wickedness, conventionally speaking.
The cards were dealt and dealt three times again before the pot could be opened, and then Rangely started it. Arthur looked at his hand in disgust. He held the nine of hearts, the five, six, eight, and nine of spades, and as he said to himself he never had luck in drawing to either straight or flush. Still the stake was good, and he came in, discarding his heart. He drew the seven of spades.
It was quite true that Mr. Arthur Rangely had asked Victoria to drop him at the Inn. But when they reached it he made another request. "Do you mind if I go a bit farther, Miss Flint?" he suggested. "I'd rather like the walk back." Victoria laughed. "Do come," she said. He admired the country, but he looked at Victoria, and asked a hundred exceedingly frank questions about Leith, about Mrs.
If a fellow can be of any help, call on; if not, at least try to take it a little more gently for the sake of your friends." "Do any thing?" retorted the other. "No; there's nothing to be done. I'm a fool." "Even that disease has been remedied before now," Rangely said coolly;" though usually experience and time are necessary to the cure."
"Women are very like hens," interpolated Fenton; "they always cackle most over the smallest egg." "If any one of the crew," continued Bently, "could appreciate a fiftieth part of the suggestions in a single sketch of an old master, she might have something to write about." "But then she would know enough to keep still," said Rangely.
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