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Updated: June 10, 2025
And, more terrible still, was the likeness, was the magisterial certainty with which his physical peculiarities were all recorded and subtly exaggerated. Denis looked deeper into the book. There were caricatures of other people: of Priscilla and Mr. Barbecue-Smith; of Henry Wimbush, of Anne and Gombauld; of Mr.
Scogan, "till I've refilled my pipe." Mr. Wimbush waited. Seated apart in a corner of the room, Ivor was showing Mary his sketches of Spirit Life. They spoke together in whispers. Mr. Scogan had lighted his pipe again. "Fire away," he said. Henry Wimbush fired away.
Wimbush, whose social gift never shone brighter than in the dry decorum with which she accepted this fizzle in her fireworks, mentioned to me that Guy Walsingham had made a very favourable impression on her Imperial Highness. Indeed I think every one did so, and that, like the money-market or the national honour, her Imperial Highness was constitutionally sensitive.
Wimbush goes by the calendar, the temperature goes by the weather, the weather goes by God knows what, and the Princess is easily heated. I've nothing but my acrimony to warm me, and have been out under an umbrella to restore my circulation. Coming in an hour ago I found Lady Augusta Minch rummaging about the hall.
Replying automatically to its stimulus, she moved forward. "Be careful going down the ladder," said Gombauld once more. She was careful. The door closed behind her and she was alone in the little green close. She walked slowly back through the farmyard; she was pensive. Henry Wimbush brought down with him to dinner a budget of printed sheets loosely bound together in a cardboard portfolio.
All her childhood long Uncle Henry's History had been a vague and fabulous thing, often heard of and never seen. "It has taken me nearly thirty years," said Mr. Wimbush. "Twenty-five years of writing and nearly four of printing.
Training would only have destroyed his natural aptitudes. "Let's go out into the garden," Ivor suggested. "It's a wonderful night." "Thank you," said Mr. Scogan, "but I for one prefer these still more wonderful arm-chairs." His pipe had begun to bubble oozily every time he pulled at it. He was perfectly happy. Henry Wimbush was also happy.
"Let me see," Henry Wimbush rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I can only think of two suicides, one violent death, four or perhaps five broken hearts, and half a dozen little blots on the scutcheon in the way of misalliances, seductions, natural children, and the like. No, on the whole, it's a placid and uneventful record."
Henry Wimbush took up the thread of his interrupted discourse. "All that you say, my dear Scogan," he began, "is certainly very just, very true. But whether Sir Ferdinando shared your views about architecture or if, indeed, he had any views about architecture at all, I very much doubt.
Wimbush, for I didn't want to be taunted by her with desiring to aggrandise myself by a public connexion with Mr. Paraday's sweepings. She had signified her willingness to meet the expense of all advertising, as indeed she was always ready to do. The last night of the horrible series, the night before he died, I put my ear closer to his pillow. "That thing I read you that morning, you know."
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