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Updated: June 22, 2025
"My dear Morewood, I am told you know everything except the Bible. Why choose your allusions from the one unfamiliar source?" "And how do you like your new neighbor?" "What new neighbor?" "Intellect." "Oh! well, as personified in you it's a not unwholesome astringent. But we may take an overdose." "Depends on the capacity of the constitution, of course," said Morewood.
"She aspires to be," said Morewood; he was sneering as usual, but rather at aspirations in general than at any unusual absurdity in May Gaston's; thus at least the Dean understood him. "You mean that that's at the bottom of the trouble?" he inquired, smiling a little. "Oh, yes," answered Morewood, weary of indicating what was so apparent.
It isn't entailed, and I've always been pressing them to sell, but so far they won't hear of it. They both married Englishmen, so it will take a day or two to get in touch with them. One, Mrs. Stukely, lives in Devonshire. The other Miss Katie that was married Sir Frances Morewood, the general, and I hear that she's expected back in London next Monday from the Riviera.
"You be damned!" said Morewood. "But I should like to hear what you think of it." "What do he and the rest of them think?" "I haven't shown it to any one." "Why not?" "Wait till you've seen it." "I should think Stafford would make rather a good head. He's got just that " "Hush! Here he comes!" As he spoke, Stafford and Claudia came up the drive and emerged on to the lawn.
Baxter and the Dean, rather than in any more public fashion, but the unexpressed thought pervaded every conversation, and was strongest when the presence of the persons concerned forbade even indirect reference. Once or twice Morewood broke into open comment to Lady Richard; he puzzled her rather, and did not console her at all. "I know why you object and how silly your grounds are," he said.
"Yes, and to jettison other people's heavy luggage first," said Morewood. "The duty of a captain, I suppose," murmured the Dean with a smile. "You needn't begin with your best guns," argued Dick, a little hotly. "We can't let Dick appropriate our metaphor to his own purposes," said Marchmont. "As a matter of fact now, had the Crusade much to do with it?"
Morewood passed his hand through his hair; the ruffled locks intensified the ruefulness of his aspect; he had before his eyes the picture of May Quisanté's silence and her so careful, so deliberate little speech after it. He tossed off his wine almost angrily, as Dick Benyon rose, saying, "Let's have coffee in the garden. It's a splendid night."
"Oh, no; exactly the opposite; for me at least." "Is he then a curriculum?" "He's partly a curriculum, and partly I don't know a taste for strong drink perhaps." She laughed reluctantly, adding, "I'm being absurd, I know." "In talk or in conduct?" "Both, Mr. Morewood. I can only see him in metaphors. I once thought of him as a mountain range; that's fine-sounding and dignified, isn't it?
It is likely enough that his previous experience had made him describe his own condition rather in the rhetoric of the pulpit than in the duller language of a psychological narrative. He had certainly given Morewood one false impression, or rather, perhaps Morewood had drawn one false though natural inference for himself.
If any doubt had remained on my mind as to the deception I had been duped by, this would completely have dispelled it, but I had long before been convinced of the trick, and only wondered how the false Guy Mr. Dudley Morewood had contrived to present himself to me so opportunely, and by what means, in so short a space of time, he had become acquainted with my personal appearance.
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