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Updated: June 7, 2025
“My Alicia understands me not!” Mr Beveridge soliloquised in another audible aside. Aloud, or rather in a little lower tone, he answered, “I am friendless, poor, and imprisoned. What is the good in your staying? Ah, Lady Alicia! But why should I detain you? Go, fair friend! Go and forget poor Francis Beveridge!” There came a soft, surprised answer, “Francis Beveridge?”
At this point, just as he was regarding the double mark of exclamation with reminiscent entertainment, a plaintive voice from the other side of the wall cried in a stage whisper, “Have you got it?” Mr Beveridge composed his face, and heaving his shoulders to his ears in the effort, gave vent to a prodigious sigh.
His friend was half out of the door when he turned, and said with an intonation quite foreign either to Beveridge or Bunker, and yet which came very pleasantly, “I forgot to warn you of one thing when I advised you to try the rôle of certified lunatic—you are not likely to make so good a friend as I have.” He shut the door noiselessly and was gone.
You bade me read the Anglican divines; I have given a great deal of time to them, and I am embracing that creed which alone is the scope to which they converge in their separate teachings; the creed which upholds the divinity of tradition with Laud, consent of Fathers with Beveridge, a visible Church with Bramhall, dogma with Bull, the authority of the Pope with Thorndike, penance with Taylor, prayers for the dead with Ussher, celibacy, asceticism, ecclesiastical discipline with Bingham.
“That on these chilly afternoons the dear good doctor is afraid of my health?” “That’s kind o’ it, sir.” “But of course I’m not supposed to notice anything, eh?” Moggridge looked a trifle uncomfortable and was discreetly silent. Mr Beveridge smiled at his own perspicacity, and then began in the most friendly tone, “Well, I feel flattered that so stout a man has been told off to take care of me.
There’s nothin’ to be afrightened of.” “Stand back!” she cried; “don’t come near me!” Moggridge was too staggered at this outburst to say a word. “Stand away!” she said, and the bewildered attendant stood away. She turned to Mr Beveridge. “Now, will you help me up?”
Senator Albert J. Beveridge succeeded Senator Fairbanks, as a member of the Committee on Foreign Relations. For years Senator Beveridge had seemed more than anxious to become a member of this committee.
“It must be bearing now,” replied Mr Beveridge, striking out harder than ever; “they have taken away the board.” “All right,” said the doctor, “on you go.” As he spoke he felt a violent push, and the chair, slewing round as it went, flew on its course unguided. Mr Beveridge’s skates rasped on the ice with a spray of white powder as he stopped himself suddenly.
“Thank you,” said Mr Beveridge, pressing his arm. “I had, you know, a touch of the sun in India, and I sometimes talk when I shouldn’t. Though, after all, that isn’t a very uncommon complaint.” And so it happened that no rumour prejudicial either to his sanity or to the progress of his friendship with the Lady Alicia reached the ears of the authorities.
He had borrowed it, as he had borrowed everything else in the subterranean war-ship, from the near-by ruins. He was an extremely light-hearted and courteous host, but he frowned suspiciously when he asked if I knew a correspondent named Senator Albert Beveridge. I hastily repudiated Beveridge.
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