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Updated: June 27, 2025
They said, too, that it looked as if she were encouraging the attentions of George, Mr. Pendyce's eldest son. Lady Maiden had remarked to Mrs. Winlow in the drawing-room before dinner: "What is it about that Mrs. Bellew? I never liked her. A woman situated as she is ought to be more careful. I don't understand her being asked here at all, with her husband still at the Firs, only just over the way.
He answered calmly: "Wanted the money." Winlow, who was not lacking in cool discretion, changed the subject. Late that evening George sat in the Stoics' window overlooking Piccadilly.
He moved into line with the wickets to see how much the fellow "came in," and he grew so absorbed that he did not at first notice the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow in pads and a blue and green blazer, smoking a cigarette astride of a camp-stool. "Ah, Winlow, it's your team against the village. Afraid I can't stop to see you bat. I was just passing matter I had to attend to must get back!"
Gertrude Winlow, revolving like a faintly coloured statue, to young Tharp, with his clean face and his fair bullety head, who danced as though he were riding at a bullfinch. In a niche old Lord Quarryman, the Master of the Gaddesdon, could be discerned in conversation with Sir James Malden and the Reverend Hussell Barter. Mrs.
Late in the evening, close by one of the great clumps of bloom, a very pretty woman stood talking to Bertie Caradoc. She was his cousin, Lily Malvezin, sister of Geoffrey Winlow, and wife of a Liberal peer, a charming creature, whose pink cheeks, bright eyes, quick lips, and rounded figure, endowed her with the prettiest air of animation.
Her head appeared again behind the swathe of gauze. "There's plenty of room, George." George Pendyce walked quickly forward, and disappeared beside her. There was a crunch of wheels; the brougham rolled away. The Hon. Geoffrey Winlow raised his face again. "Who was that, Benson?" The coachman leaned over confidentially, holding his podgy white-gloved hand outspread on a level with the Hon.
Winlow dissenting or assenting in turn, all mingled in a comfortable, sleepy sound, clipped now and then by the voice of General Pendyce calling, "Check!" and of Bee saying, "Oh, uncle!" A feeling of rage rose in George. Why should they all be so comfortable and cosy while this perpetual fire was burning in himself?
The real solemnity of his face excited Winlow's curiosity. "Can't you stop and have lunch with us?" "No, no; my wife Must get back!" Winlow murmured: "Ah yes, of course." His leisurely blue eyes, always in command of the situation, rested on the Rector's heated face. "By the way," he said, "I'm afraid George Pendyce is rather hard hit. Been obliged to sell his horse.
"Aren't they coming to town this season?" "Haven't heard," answered George. "Have a cigar?" Winlow took the cigar, and cutting it with a small penknife, scrutinised George's square face with his leisurely eyes. It needed a physiognomist to penetrate its impassivity. Winlow thought to himself: 'I shouldn't be surprised if what they say about old George is true.... "Had a good meeting so far?"
The tea-things were still on a table at one end, but every one had finished. As far away as might be, in the embrasure of the bay-window, General Pendyce and Bee were playing chess. Grouped in the centre of the room, by one of the lamps, Lady Maiden, Mrs. Winlow, and Mrs.
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