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Updated: June 18, 2025
The adoring father's mind gives way under the blow, his memory is permanently confused, and he lives tranquilly on for some years in the belief that Cyril has only gone away for a few days. The story ends with a family scene by Lake Leman, where Henry and Lilian, happily married, are living for a time with Mr. Maitland and Cyril's children, whom Henry has kept from knowing their father's guilt.
If it is a snake I'll tame it, and it will follow me everywhere, and I'll let it sleep round my neck at night. 'No, you won't, said Robert firmly. He shared Cyril's bedroom. 'But you may if it's a rat. 'Oh, don't be silly! said Anthea; 'it's not a rat, it's MUCH bigger. And it's not a snake. It's got feet; I saw them; and fur! No not the spade. You'll hurt it! Dig with your hands.
We must keep her; that's settled. The question is, how shall it be done? We must have some woman friend here to be her companion, of course; but whom shall we get?" Kate sighed, and looked her dismay. Bertram threw a glance into Cyril's eyes, and made an expressive gesture. "You see," it seemed to say. "I told you how it would be!" "Now whom shall we get?" questioned William again.
And waving a cheery farewell with his neat umbrella, the good and high-hatted uncle passed away, leaving Cyril and Anthea to exchange eloquent glances over the shining golden sovereign that lay in Cyril's hand. 'Well! said Anthea. 'Well! said Cyril. 'Well! said the Phoenix. 'Good old carpet! said Cyril, joyously.
'And who's US, when you're at home? asked Martha scornfully. 'I tell you it's US, only we're beautiful as the day, said Cyril. 'I'm Cyril, and these are the others, and we're jolly hungry. Let us in, and don't be a silly idiot. Martha merely dratted Cyril's impudence and tried to shut the door in his face.
She flies up to Cyril's rooms half a dozen times a day with some question about her lessons; and I don't know how long she'd sit at his feet and adoringly listen to his playing if he didn't sometimes get out of patience and tell her to go and practise herself.
"Wrong for once, my dear boy," Nevitt answered, smiling, "it's English, pure English, and by a lady what's more one of the Eweses of Kenilworth. She's a distant relation of Cyril's Miss Clifford, I believe. An Elma, too; name runs in the family. But she composes wonderfully. Everything she writes is in that mystic key. It sounds like a reminiscence of some dim and lamp-lit eastern temple.
Had they not always been to Buxton? What would their landlady say? How could they ever look her in the face again? Besides ... well ...! They went to Llandudno, rather scared, and hardly knowing how the change had come about. But they went. And it was the force of Cyril's will, Cyril the theoretic cypher, that took them.
"We must realize Cyril's point of view first," she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery's maiden cousin, entered the room.
"I was afraid it would be like that. When one's been painted black all one's life, it's not easy to change one's color, of course." "Oh, but I didn't say that black wasn't a very nice color," stammered Billy, a little wildly. "Thank you." Cyril's heavy brows rose and fell the fraction of an inch. "Still, I must confess that just now I should prefer another shade."
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