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Updated: June 22, 2025
"Well, I should like to see the prospectus now," he said. "You'll find one or two over there," said Dick, jerking his head towards a writing-table, but not rising. Morewood made in the direction indicated, a low mutter from Dick following him. Then Jimmy observed: "He doesn't understand a thing about it, you know, and of course he didn't follow what Maturin said." The others nodded.
But it's one thing to see what a man is and quite another to see what effect his being it will have on yourself from time to time." "What he's done about Dick and the Dean is so characteristic." "For example," Morewood pursued, "you know what a bore is, but at one time he kills you, at another he faintly amuses you.
He then dispensed with his own presence in his branch of the Legislature, and took his way toward Grosvenor Square, where Lord Rickmansworth's town house was. Lady Claudia was not at home. She had gone with her aunt earlier in the day to give Mr. Morewood a sitting. Mr. Morewood was painting her portrait. "I expect they've stayed to tea. I haven't seen old Morewood for no end of a time. Gad!
It can't matter to you, you know," he added, with a sharp glance. "No, it can't matter to me," said Eugene steadily. "Put it away, Morewood, and come out of doors. Perhaps you'd better not leave it about, at present at any rate." Morewood took down the picture and placed it in a large portfolio, which he locked, and accompanied Ayre.
Morewood had been to see him, had told without disguise the whole story of his blunder at the dinner-table at Ashwood, had referred to Alexander Quisanté's serious illness, and had finally, without apology and without periphrasis, expressed the hope that Alexander Quisanté would die. The Dean's rebuke had produced a strenuous effort at justification.
"Yes. I wonder what they'll make of one another!" Morewood was a good-natured man at bottom, and after a few minutes' more talk he carried off Aunt Julia to look at his etchings. "So I have run you down at last?" said Eugene to Claudia. "I told you I didn't want to see you." "I know. But that was a month ago." "I was very much upset." "So was I, awfully!" "Do you think it was my fault, Mr. Lane?"
May thought that she would not have known how good the talk was for it came so easily had she not seen how soon Morewood became a listener, or even a foil, ready and content to put his questions not as puzzles but as provocatives. Yet Morewood was proverbially conceited, and he was fully a dozen years Quisanté's senior. She stole a look round; the brothers were open-mouthed, Mrs.
Presently she found a chance for a whisper to Morewood. "How are you painting him?" she asked. "You must come and see," he replied, with a rather sour grin. "So I will, but tell me now. You know the difference, I mean?" "Oh, and do you already? Well, I shall do him making himself agreeable to a lady." "For heaven's sake don't!" she whispered, half-laughing yet not without seriousness.
Look what she writes: "You must come, dear. I must be helped through, I must have a refuge. How in the world I ever did such a thing I don't know! But I did and I can't help it now. He's coming! So you must come. We expect the Baxters and Mr. Morewood. But I want you."" "What has she done? Who's coming?" asked Marchmont. "Mr. Quisanté."
He reminded Marchmont of a monkey who had some trick to play, and grinned and chattered in anticipation of his cruel fun; his smile was most mocking when he greeted May Quisanté. She was in high spirits; girlish gaiety marked a holiday mood in her. Morewood seemed to encourage it with malicious care, letting it grow that he might strike at it with better effect later on.
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