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Updated: June 6, 2025
Noticing the American, Malcolm crossed over to where he stood, proffering a cigarette. 'Have a gasper, Selwyn? he asked. 'Thanks very much. I suppose it will be some time before the British Army will get into action? 'I don't know, I'm sure, answered Durwent, holding a match for the other, 'but three weeks at the outside ought to see us over there and ready.
Naturally I have seen that you are not happy, though there have been moments when you were the very personification of light-hearted ness, and I have known for a long time that the motif of your whole nature is resentment. Believe me, Miss Durwent, if I could be a friend and I mean that to the last ditch I should be deeply grateful for the privilege.
Considerably disgusted at the ending to the incident, Selwyn, who had turned to look towards the cabinet particulier, once more sought his companion's eyes. Her face was white; there was not a vestige of colour in the cheeks. 'Miss Durwent, he gasped, 'you are not well. 'I am quite well, she answered quickly, but her voice was weak and quivering. 'I I thought I recognised the singer's voice.
From the great bridges spanning the river there was the distant thunder of lumbering traffic. 'I understand that he died very bravely, said the American in an attempt to ease the intensity of the silence. 'Yes, muttered Durwent dreamily, 'he would. . . . So old Malcolm is dead. . . . Somehow, I always looked on his soldiering as a joke.
Ah yes you mean the war. Excuse me if I look at these, won't you? Thanks, pater. 'WE ARE AT WAR THINK OF IT! cried Lady Durwent in a gust of emotion, assuming the duties of a Greek chorus while her son examined the telegrams brought by her husband. 'Well, well! said the cavalry lieutenant, reading the first message, which was signed by the adjutant of his regiment; 'dear old Agitato.
After a wedding that left her mother a triumphant wreck and appreciably hastened her father's demise, she was duly installed as the mistress of Roselawn, the Durwent family seat, and its tributary farms.
He also enjoyed the refreshing vitality of Lady Durwent, who never quite lost her optimism no matter how tight was the grip of good form; and he admired without stint the devotion of every one, regardless of sex, to sport.
'Sherwood, whimpered the boy, 'I can't stand it I've lost my nerve. . . . That thing there there. . . . It moves. It's dead, and it moves. . . . Look, it's grinning at me now! I'm going back. I can't stay here I can't. 'Steady, steady, said Durwent, gripping the boy by the shoulder and shaking him roughly. 'Pull yourself together. Don't be a kid.
Austin Selwyn bore the marks of that inheritance no less clearly than Malcolm Durwent bore the marks of his. In his features there was a certain repose, as became the part-son of a race that had produced the art of Rembrandt, but there was a roving Celtic strain as well that hid itself by turn in his eyes, in his lips, in his smile, in the lines of his frown.
H. Stackton Dunckley protested that absence from the ladies, even for so short a time, would completely spoil his evening receiving in reward a languorous glance from Lady Durwent. Johnston Smyth, who had done more than ample justice to the wines, offered to 'pink' at fifty yards any man who would consider the proposition for a moment.
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