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Updated: August 9, 2024
When, a few years before, the St Austin's secretary had received a challenge from them, dated from Stapleton, where their secretary happened to reside, he had argued within himself as follows: 'This sounds all right. Old Crockfordians? Never heard of Crockford. Probably some large private school somewhere. Anyhow, they're certain to be decent fellows. And he arranged the fixture.
Think of the drony bores, with their dull hum; think of the chivalric guardsmen, with their horses to sell and their bills to discount; think of Willis, think of Crockford, think of White's, think of Brooks', and you may form a faint idea how the young Duke had to talk, and eat, and flirt, and cut, and pet, and patronise! You think it impossible for one man to do all this.
It is also one of the duties, when I find a non-productive person filling a position to which his daily life and character do not entitle him, to pull him up like a weed. That is my idea of socialism, Mr. Crockford. You will leave on March 25th." They rode homeward into a gathering storm.
It was untidy, dirty and close, smelling strongly of tobacco and beer. On the table was a bottle of whisky, half empty, and two glasses. "There is really no reason why I should disturb you," Jane said, turning back upon the threshold. "A letter from Mr. Segerson will do." Crockford, however, had pulled himself together. A premonition of his impending fate had already produced a certain sullenness.
You've had the same opportunity. You have preferred to waste your time and waste your money. You've had more than one warning you know, Crockford." "Aye, more than a dozen," Segerson muttered. The man looked at them both and there was a dull hate gathering in his eyes.
He isn't intelligent enough to realise that there is a principle behind all this. He has simply come to feel that he has a lenient landlord and that he has only to sit still and the plums will drop into his mouth, too. Crockford is one of the weak spots in your system, Lady Jane. There is no place for him or his kind in a self-supporting world." She sighed.
Crockford," Jane said, "I am a Socialist and if you take the trouble to understand even the rudiments of socialism, you will learn that the drones have as small a part in that scheme of life as in any other. You have a right to what you produce. It is one of the pleasures of my life to help the deserving to enjoy what they produce.
He certainly looked as if he believed it when Lady Mealhead told him and his expressive Gallic eyes waxed tender at the mention of her mother, the relict of the late clergyman, whose name had somehow been overlooked by Crockford. A Frenchman loves his mother in the abstract. Nor could M. de Chauxville take exception at young Cyril Squyrt, the poet. Cyril looked like a poet.
Why, Kilcullen, what have you done with it?" "Mr Crockford has a portion of it, and John Scott has some of it. A great deal of it is scattered rather widely so widely that it would be difficult now to trace it. But, my lord, it has gone. I won't deny that the greater portion of it has been lost at play, or on the turf. I trust I may, in future, be more fortunate and more cautious." "I trust so.
"Well, Dolly dear, do you see how much Mr. Abel Newt resembles Lord Tattersalls?" "Yes, ma." "It's very striking, isn't it?" "Yes, ma." "Or now I look, I think he is even more like the Marquis of Crockford. Don't you think so?" "Yes, ma?" "Very like indeed." "Yes, ma." "Dolly, dear, don't you think his nose is like the Duke of Wellington's? You remember the Wellington nose, my child?" "Yes, ma."
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