Chapter Seven.
Doubt.
“Thro’ light and shadow thou dost range,
Sudden glances sweet and strange,
Delicious spites and darling angers,
And airy forms of flitting change.”
I had not yet had an opportunity of being introduced to Min’s mother.
’Pon my word, you exclaim, this looks very serious!
I beg to differ from you. We had been brought together legitimately enough, down at the church-decoration-gathering in the school-room: we had been regularly introduced by no less a clerical authority than little Miss Pimpernell, the vicar’s sister: we had then and there associated under the safest chaperonage—good heavens! would not Miss Spight’s jealous green eyes, that were certain to pick out the tiniest blot in her fellow man or woman, and Lady Dasher’s stately, albeit melancholy presence, satisfy you? Thus, the “convenances,” that horrid Anglo-French pseudonym, of the still more horrible bugbear “society,” had no cause to consider themselves neglected and find an excuse for taking umbrage. From this point, our acquaintanceship naturally and gradually ripened. We got intimate: it was our fate, I suppose—what more or less would you have expected?
Besides, although, mind you, I do not consider myself in any way bound to allay your curiosity and satisfy your compunctious scruples, you should remember that all of us young parishioners of Saint Canon’s—Horner, Baby Blake, Lizzie Dangler and the rest—had known each other almost from the distant days of childhood; and, consequently, were in the habit of tutoyer-ing one another, using our respective “given” names in familiar conversation. The habit may be a bad one, it is true, but you cannot prevent it sometimes. There is no practice so capable of imitation as that of calling one another by the Christian name. It is just like that of the monkeys all cleaning their teeth along the banks of the Amazon with pieces of stick, because they saw Professor Agassiz setting them an example one fine morning, when engaged on his toilet in company with a tooth-brush. You can’t help yourself: you must bow to the custom and follow suit.
In this instance, there was Miss Pimpernell, always addressing her as “Min,” and me as “Frank.” The Dasher girls and others soon learnt to do the same. What more likely than that we ourselves should fall into a similar friendly system? It was only reasonable; and a result which even a less alert person than yourself would have looked for. At all events, neither of us meant any harm by it; and I am willing to “take my affidavit” to that effect any day you please to name, in any Court of Justice you may appoint.
Notwithstanding the intimate footing that now existed between Min and myself, the fact of my non-acquaintance with her mother, annoyed me extremely. You need not flatter yourself, however. It was not in the least on account of any conscientious qualms, like yours.
I wished to know her personally from a totally different motive; and yet, in spite of all attempts and stratagems on my part, I never could get a chance of meeting her when I was in the company of some kind friend to act as go-between and soothe the exigencies of introduction; although, when alone I would encounter her frequently. This was very vexing—especially so after a while; and I’ll tell you how it was.
As the days flew by, and the new year, born in a moment, grew with giant strides in that hasty growth common to all new years—they have a habit of shooting ahead the first few months of their existence, as if they desired to “force the pace,” and make all the “running” they can—my facilities for intercourse with Min became “small by degrees and beautifully less.” There you have the cause of my annoyance at once.
I could see her at the window, certainly. I also frequently passed her mother and herself in the street, or on The Terrace, or along the Prebend’s Walk, when I was taking an airing abroad with dog Catch at my heels; yet, I don’t know how it was, but I invariably chanced to be on the opposite side of the street, or road, or terrace, whenever I thus passed them. I never failed to receive the timid little bow and smile from Min, with a rosy heightening of her complexion the while—to which I had now got so accustomed that, should I have been debarred from their receipt, I would have considered myself very hardly used and felt a morbid inclination to go mad and drown myself. But, Min’s bow was hardly sufficient to introduce me to her mother, even if people could be introduced from opposite sides of roads. Thus it was that I remained a stranger to Mrs Clyde, and did not have a chance of meeting her daughter and talking to her, as I might have done if I could but have visited her at home.
I never was able to have a word with her now, never could hear her darling voice repeat my name in those soft accents I loved so well. It was very hard—very hard, indeed! You see, I had ample reasons, beyond the requirements of mere social etiquette, for wishing to know Mrs Clyde.
Our suburb, you must know, was an extremely quiet place—“remote, unfriended, solitary, slow.”
Although everybody knew everybody, who happened to be anybody at all, there was not much of current sociability and party giving. We were not sociable. On the contrary, we were a very humdrum lot; rising early and going to town to our business and daily toil—such of us as had any sort of business to attend to—and coming back at a fixed regular hour. We were in the habit of having our respective dinners and teas, and, mayhap, suppers, at certain appointed times and seasons—also duly regulated—and subsequently going to bed, to recruit for the same routine on the morrow, without any excitements, or renovation and destruction of tissue worth speaking of.
A “tea-party” was quite a sensation in the parish of Saint Canon’s—equivalent to one of the queen’s garden fêtes. Beyond school treats and working parties, to which latter only the clergy and Lady Dorcases were admitted, and the anniversary of Christmas, when we sometimes did indulge a little in wholesome but subdued gaiety, we went on from year’s beginning to year’s end without balls, or dinners, or dances, or any of those resources which fashionable people have for killing time and keeping up acquaintanceship.
We were not “high-toned” people; quite the reverse, in fact, as, I believe, I have previously described. We only “dropped in” of an evening to see friends, and spend a quiet hour or two over bézique and music. On these occasions, a carpet cotillon or quadrille has been sometimes indulged in; but it was the exception and not the rule. We were generally satisfied with much milder pastime; our visits rarely exceeding the interval between tea and “supper” time, when we partook of a friendly, though seedy, abernethy and glass of wine or beer; and then went home virtuously to bed.
Our society being thus constituted, it became a matter almost of impossibility to meet any one particular person frequently, excepting out in the street, unless you had the entrée of their house. Hence, I never could chat with Min, as I had done at the decorations; and, naturally, I felt very much aggrieved thereanent.
What made it additionally provoking to me was, that Horner had contrived to get introduced to Mrs Clyde almost as soon as she had settled in the place, before I had returned from Paris; and there was Mr Mawley the curate, too, exercising the privilege of his cloth by continually frequenting her house. He drove me to desperation by going in and out, apparently just as the fancy suited him, as if he were a tame cat about the place.
His conduct was perfectly odious—that is, to any right-thinking person.
Curates and cousins are, I consider, two of the greatest obstacles to an innocent layman’s intimacy with the diviner portion of creation; and, in these days of reform and disestablishment, of hereditary and other conservative grievances, something ought to be done to abolish the persons in question, or at least handicap them so that other deserving young men might have a fair chance in the race for beauty’s smile and Hymen’s chain. They have an enormous advantage, at present, over outside men-folk. Girls like to have a sort of good-natured lap-dog about them, to play with occasionally and run their errands, “do this” and “that” for the asking—like Cornelius the centurion’s obedient servant—and make himself generally useful, without looking for any ulterior reward on account of services rendered. You see, cousins and curates are regarded as “harmless”—“detrimentals with the chill off,” so to speak. His scrap of relationship throws a glimmer of possession around the one, endowing with inherent right every act of his ministry; while his “cloth” invests the other with a halo of sanctity and Platonic freedom that disarms gossip of the usual clothes-peg whereon it hangs its scandal. “Cousin Tom”—by-the-way, did you ever read Mackworth Praed’s lines on the same theme?—is allowed opportunities for, and latitude in, flirtation, which poor Corydon, not a cousin never so remote, may sigh in vain for; and, who would be so despicable as to impute secular motives to the Reverend Hobplush’s tender ministrations towards those sweet young “sisters,” who dote on his sucking sermons and work him carpet slippers and text-markers without limit? Certainly, not I.
I do not mean to say, however, that curates and cousins have it all their own way always. There’s a sweet little cupid who “sits up aloft,” like Jack’s guardian angel, to watch o’er the loves of poor laymen. Still, it is very galling, to one of an ardent temperament especially, to mark the anxious solicitude with which “Cousin Tom” may hang over the divine creature—whom you can only look upon from afar as some distant star—without attracting any observations anent his “attentions.” The confounded airs of possession he gives himself, while you are languishing “out in the cold,” in the expressive vernacular, are frightful to contemplate. As for curate Hobplush, he may drop in whenever he pleases, being treated like one of the family circle; while you, miserable creature, can only call at stated intervals, always dreading the horrid possibility of out-staying your welcome, and receiving the metaphorical “cold shoulder”—though love may prompt you to the sacrifice.
Such was my position now.
There was Mr Mawley visiting at Mrs Clyde’s house some half-a-dozen times a week, for all I knew to the contrary—and of course I imagined the worst—and having endless chances and opportunities of conversing with my darling, in the morning, at noontide, and at night; while poor, wretched I had to content myself with a passing bow and smile when we chanced to meet abroad, or I should happen to see her dainty figure at the window as I promenaded past her house.
You say I ought to have considered myself lucky to get even that slight modicum of notice?
But I did not so consider myself. I was not by any means contented. Where did you ever find a lover worth his salt who was?
To tell the truth, I was horribly jealous of Mawley. He was not at all a bad-looking fellow; and, with all his dogmatic tone and love of argument, had a wonderfully taking way with ladies. Besides, his connection with the Church gave him a considerable pull over me—girls are so impressionable, as a rule, with regard to nice young curates, that they generally have the pick of the parish! Really, all things considered, I’m very much afraid that I had not that kind Christian feeling and charity in my heart towards Mawley that the vicar had enjoined in his Christmas sermon. I did not regard the curate even with that reverence which his Oxford waistcoat should have inspired. I believe that at that particular time I looked upon him with somewhat of the same feeling with which the homicidal Cain regarded his brother Abel about the sacrificing business.
Then, there was Horner, too, who was generally looked upon as an “eligible” person, having a respectable position of his own in addition to considerable expectations from his rich uncle, as I told you before. I could see that Mrs Clyde encouraged him. He was always going there, and frequently walking out with them also. I saw him, and it made my heart bitter. One evening, I met him in full costume, with an opera-glass slung round his shoulders, just before he reached their door. He told me that Mrs Clyde had asked him to accompany her daughter and herself to Covent Garden and share their box. They would have waited a considerable time, I thought, before they would have been invited to share his! I watched them drive off, and I went home mad. It was getting too grievous for mortal to bear.
The house felt suffocating to me that evening. I could not stop in. I determined to go and call on my old friend Miss Pimpernell, and see what she could do to cheer me up.
“My dear boy,” she said, as I entered the parlour, where she sat darning the vicar’s socks by the light of a moderator lamp, which stood on a little table close beside her. “My dear boy, what is the matter with you? You look quite haggard, and like a wild man from the woods! Have you had your tea yet? I can ring for some in a moment.”
“No, pray don’t, thank you,” I answered. “Miss Pimpernell,” I continued, in a determined voice, “I have had tea enough to-night to last me for a twelvemonth! I can’t bear this any longer. You must introduce me to Mrs Clyde. I have never been able as yet to make her acquaintance, and I want to go to her house as Horner does, and that fellow Mawley.”
“Hush, my dear boy!” she said, in her soothing way, as if she were stroking me down the back like she stroked her tabby Tom—one of the mousiest and most petted of cats. “You should not speak so of a clergyman, my dear Frank. Think what the vicar would say if he heard you!”
“Oh, never mind Mr Mawley,” I said, somewhat petulantly; “I want to know Mrs Clyde.”
“Ah! that’s what’s the matter, is it, Frank? Then why did you not come to old Sally before?”
“Well, Miss Pimpernell,” I replied, “I never thought of you until to-night.”
“Never thought of me! You are ungallant, Master Frank! But think of me next time, my dear boy, whenever you find yourself in a difficulty; and if Sally Pimpernell can help you out of it, she will, you may depend!”
“Oh, thank you, dear Miss Pimpernell! And when will you introduce me to Mrs Clyde?” I asked, thinking it best to “strike the iron” whilst it was “hot.”
“Come round to-morrow afternoon, Frank,” she replied. “She is going to be here by appointment, to see me about some charity in which she is interested; and I’ll try and manage it for you then.”
“I’ll be here, Miss Pimpernell, without fail,” I said. “I can never be sufficiently obliged to you, if you do it.”
“All right, my boy,” she said. “I’m sure I shall be very glad to help you in such a trifling matter. But I do not want any of your soft speeches, Frank! Keep them for somebody else who will appreciate them better;” and she laughed her cheery, merry laugh, wishing me good-night and sending me home much easier in my mind and happier than I had been for many days past.
On the following afternoon I was introduced, as my old friend had promised; and you may be certain that I tried to make myself as agreeable as I could be to Min’s mother. I think I succeeded, too; for, when I took my leave early, in order to allow Miss Pimpernell and her visitor an opportunity of discussing the best way of relieving the parish poor, Mrs Clyde gave me an invitation.
“Mr Lorton,” said she, “I should be glad if you would come round and see us on Wednesday evening—I think you know our address? My daughter is going to have a few friends in for a little music; and we shall both be happy if you will join us. Miss Pimpernell tells me you are very musical.”
“With great pleasure,” I answered, in society’s stock phraseology. With the “greatest” pleasure, I might have said, as I could almost have jumped for joy. Just fancy! all that I had longed for was accorded in a moment. My good fairy must undoubtedly have been hovering about the vicarage premises that day; and I strongly suspect my good fairy in this instance, as was the case also in many other circumstances of my life, being none other than my very unfairylike old friend, little Miss Pimpernell, the vicar’s kind-hearted sister.
Did I not look forward to Wednesday evening? Did I not, when the time for me to dress at last came round after an excruciatingly long interval, bestow the most elaborate and unheard-of pains on my toilet, almost rivalling Horner’s generally unimpeachable “get up”? Did I not proceed in the utmost joy and gladness towards the habitation of my darling?
I should rather think I did!
And yet, when I crossed the threshold of Miss Clyde’s house, I was seized with a sudden vague impression of uneasiness. I felt a, to me, singular sensation of nervousness, shyness, “mauvais honte”—just as if a cold key had been put down my back—for which I was at a loss to account. Those who know me say that bashfulness is one of the least of my virtues; and, I do not think that I am constitutionally timid—so why this feeling? Was it not a foreboding of evil? I believe it was, for everything went wrong with me that night, instead of my having a surfeit of pleasure, as I had sanguinely expected.
“Hope told a flattering tale.” My good fairy deceived me. My unpropitious star was again in the ascendant.
In fact, my bad genius reigned supreme, in spite of such counteracting influences as my being at last admitted to Min’s home and permitted to watch her gliding movements about the room, hear her liquid voice, catch the bright looks from her glancing grey eyes, speak to her, smile with her, adore her.
Yes, in spite of all this, my bad influence reigned supreme; and, I’m afraid, something wrong must have been done at my baptism to disgust my better genii.
In the first place, I arrived too soon, which was a calamity in itself. There is always pardon for one who goes late to an evening party—nay, it often enhances his reputation. Absolution may even be extended to the calculating individual who ravenously times his arrival by the supper hour; but, for a simple-minded person, unaccustomed to the usages of polite society, to believe in the invariability of fixed appointments and, taking an invitation au pied de la lettre, make his appearance a full hour before any other guest would dare to “turn up,” from the fear of being thought unfashionable, is simply monstrous! His behaviour is perfectly inexcusable; and, as a punishment, he should in future be compelled for a certain time to dine at our Saxon forefathers’ early hour, and go to bed at the sound of the curfew bell instituted by their Norman conquerors—that is how I would teach him manners!
I committed this grievous fault on the present occasion. I had been so anxious to get there in good time and not miss a minute of Min’s charming company, that, like our friend Paddy who ate his breakfast over night in order to save time in the morning, I overdid it, arriving there too early. I saw this at once from Mrs Clyde’s face when I was announced, the unhappy premier of all the coming guests.
Perhaps it was only my fancy, as I’m extremely sensitive on such points, for she received me courteously enough, pressing the welcoming cup of coffee and hospitable muffin in an adjoining ante-room on my notice; but, I thought I could perceive, below the veneer of social civility, a sort of “how-tiresome-of-you-to-come-before-anybody-else” look in her eyes, which made me extremely small in my own estimation.
It was a horrible interval waiting for the other guests to come and support me. I made a vow there and then that I would never again present myself wherever I might be invited out until a full hour beyond the specified time—and I’ve generally kept it, too!
Min did not treat me cavalierly, however, notwithstanding that I had arrived in advance of expectation. She was all kindness and grace, endeavouring to make the “mauvais quart d’heure” of my solitary guesthood pass away as little uncomfortably to me as possible.
She asked me to come and see her flowers in the bay window of the drawing-room, which she had fitted up as a tiny conservatory; while her mother sat down to the piano and played dreamy music in a desultory fashion. I like dreamy music, although it always makes me melancholy—indeed, all music affects me the same way, in spite of my not being by any means what you would call a sad person. On the contrary, I am supposed to be one of the most light-hearted fellows imaginable, and, certainly, laugh more than I ever cry. However, mirth and sadness are closer allies than people generally suspect. All emotion proceeds, more or less, from hysteria.
While Mrs Clyde was playing, Min and I got talking. She thanked me for coming early; and upbraided the absent guests for thinking it fashionable to come later than bidden.
We discussed the rival merits of a scarlet japonica and a double fuchsia, giving the palm of merit to the former, though the latter had some wondrous lobes; and I was also asked my opinion whether her favourite maidenhair fern would survive a sudden and unaccountable blight which had fallen upon it a few days before.
She then showed me the identical violets I had given her that Christmas morning, now so long passed by: she had tipped the stalks with sealing wax and preserved them in cotton wool, so that they looked as fresh as when first gathered.
“There!” she said, with an air of triumph. “There, Mr Lorton! I have kept them ever since.”
“Mr Lorton!” I repeated, “who is he? I don’t know him.”
“Well, ‘Frank,’ then—will that please you better, you tiresome thing?”
“You know you promised,” I said, apologetically.
“Did I?” she asked, with charming naïvété.
“Why, have you forgotten that night already?” I said, in a melancholy tone.
“Don’t be so lugubrious,” she said. “You have to amuse me. You mustn’t remember all my promises.”
“Are they so unsubstantial?” I asked.
“No, they’re not, sir!” she said, stamping her foot in affected anger. “But what do you say to my keeping your violets so long, Frank?”
“What do I say?” I repeated after her, looking my delight into her eyes; when, a frantic chord, struck deep down in the bass by Mrs Clyde, marking the finish of some piece of Wagner’s, recalled us both to every-day life.
As nobody else had yet arrived, Min challenged me to a game of chess.
I allowed her to win the first game easily.
She pouted, saying that she supposed I thought it below my dignity to put forth my best energies in playing against a lady!
Thereupon, I did exert myself; but, she was just as provokingly dissatisfied.
I took her queen. She protested it was unfair.
I offered to restore it to her; she would not have it at any price;—she wished me to play the game, she said, just as if I were playing with a man.
I checkmated her. She got up in a pet, saying that chess was a nasty, stupid, tiresome thing, and that she would not play it any longer.
O, the contrariness of feminine nature!
Other people now began to drop in; and it was my turn to get put out.
I heard it was Min’s birthday, which I had not known before. I saw that they remembered it; while, I, had not brought her even a paltry flower!
Everybody was wishing her “many happy returns of the day.” I had not done so; neither had I any opportunity of atoning for my neglect, as she was too busy receiving the new comers; but, indeed, I would have been too proud to excuse myself after witnessing Mr Mawley’s “effusion.”
He seemed to me to be guilty of unpardonable effrontery in holding Min’s hand such an unconscionably long time in his, when presenting a miserable shop-bouquet; and, as for the lackadaisical airs of that insufferable donkey, Horner—I can find no words adequate wherewith to express what I thought; he was positively sickening!
I did not have another chance of speaking to Min either; that is, unless I chose to bawl what I had to say across a crowded room; and, I need hardly say, I did not exactly care about that!
She appeared to me to be very inconsistent, too.
She seemed really much more interested in Mawley’s conversation than I thought any reasonable person could be; while he was grinning and carrying on at a rate, which, if I had been Mrs Clyde, I would not have allowed for a moment.
O, the equilibriant temperament of the “superior” sex!
Min teased me yet further.
She sang every song that Mawley and Horner asked her for, playing the accompaniments for the latter when he favoured the company with his idea of ballad vocalisation.
Horner thought he possessed a fine tenor voice: I didn’t think so, especially on this evening!
But, no matter what these two asked her to do, she did. If I, however, requested any particular song, she said she did not believe she could manage it; her voice could not compass it; she had lent it out; or, she hadn’t got it!
Was it not enough to provoke one? Wouldn’t you have been affected by it?
In addition to Horner and Mawley, there was also an odious cousin of hers, called “Jack,” or “Tom,” or “Ned,” or some other abominably familiar abbreviation, who hung over the piano stool, and said “Min, do this,” and “Min, do that,” in a way that drove me to frenzy.
I hate cousins! I don’t see the necessity for them. I’m sure people can get along very well without their existence. I would do away with them to-morrow by act of Parliament, if I only had the power.
When everybody else who had a voice at all had exercised their vocal powers, Mrs Clyde at last asked me to sing.
Instead of declining, as I would have done at any other time, on account of her slight, I bowed my acquiescence and went to the piano.
To tell you the truth, I was glad of the opportunity afforded me for carrying out a petty piece of revenge against Min, of which I had suddenly bethought me.
I had composed a little song, you must know, that I believed highly applicable to her at the moment, although when I had written it she was no more in my mind than Adam or Eve, or both!
I sang it, looking into her face the while, as she stood by the instrument; and these were the words. I gave them expression enough, you may be sure.
“My lady’s eyes are soft and blue, deep-changing as the
iris hue;
But, eyes deceive
Hearts ‘worn on sleeve,’
And make us oft their power rue!
“Her little mouth—a ‘sunny south’—wafts perfumed
kisses to the wind;
But, winds blow cold,
And kiss of old,
A trait’rous symbol was, I find!
“For pearly teeth and rosebud lips, whose honied wealth
the zephyr sips,
But bait the lair
Where fickle fair,
Like Scylla, wreck men’s stately ships—
“And witching eyes and plaintive sighs, and looks of love
and tender words—
Love’s tricking arts -
Are poison’d darts,
More awesome far than pendant swords!”
“Thank you,” said Mrs Clyde; “it is very pretty. Your own, I suppose?”
“Yes,” I said. I did not feel disposed to be more communicative.
“What do you call it?” asked Min, carelessly.
“‘Per Contra,’” I answered. “Don’t you think it a suitable title?”
“Yes, I understand” she said. “Thank you, Mr Lorton!”
She spoke, with marked emphasis.
A little time afterwards, when I was sitting moodily in a corner, with a book before me which I was supposed to be looking at, but whose bare title escapes my recollection, Min came to my side; and, she began overhauling some volumes of music that were piled up in a heap on the floor.
“Mr Lorton,” she said, hesitatingly.
That “Mr Lorton” set my teeth on edge.
I made no reply.
“Frank!”
“Yes,” I said, testily.
I felt very angry with her for her attentions to Horner and Mawley, and, as I thought, neglect of me; so, I wished to let her know it.
“Frank,” she repeated, “didn’t you mean that song at me?”
“Yes, I did,” I replied, very grumpily.
“Foolish fellow!” she said; “what a very bad opinion you must have of me, although I did not know my eyes were blue before! You said the other night they were grey,” and she smiled bewitchingly. But, I wouldn’t be coaxed into good humour.
“Ce m’est égal,” I answered coldly, “whatever they are.”
“You are very cross!” she said pettishly; “I will go and talk to Mr Mawley, until you get into a better mood, sir, and are more amiable.”
“I’m sure,” said I, loftily, “that I would not be the means of depriving you of his valuable and entertaining society.”
Min laughed provokingly. “At all events,” she said, “he is not cross with me about nothing; and some people might learn better manners from him, Mr Lorton!”
“Pray do not let me detain you from such a charming companion, Miss Clyde,” I said, with distant politeness.
“Even poor Mr Horner can be agreeable and amusing, and you won’t even try to be. I will go to him,” she continued, still striving to get me to be more sociable; but I was obstinate and ill-tempered.
An angel would not have pacified me. How could I have been so rude to her?
I was a brute.
“Ah,” I exclaimed, “his conversation is truly intellectual!”
She was quite vexed now.
“You are very unkind,” she said. “You speak ill-naturedly of everybody, and are cross with me on my birthday! I won’t speak to you, Frank, again this evening; there, see if I do!” and she turned away from me with a tremble in her voice, and an indignant look in the, now, flashing, grey eyes.
She kept her promise.
Much as I tried, when my ill-temper had subsided, to get speech with her, I was not allowed a word. Even when leaving the house, I only received a bow. She would not shake hands, to show that I was forgiven.
I had stopped to the very last in order to sit out Horner. He would not budge first, and I would not budge first; so now we started off together, our homeward routes being identical.
You may imagine that I felt very amicably disposed towards him. I was ripe for a quarrel, or at least a separation; and Horner soon gave me an opening.
He began to praise Min’s looks and voice, and the manner in which she had sung the songs he had asked her for, including the one he had given her that evening.
Really, the cool impudence of Horner was something astounding! What right had he to criticise her? He spoke just as if she belonged to him, I assure you!
This was too much, after what I had already gone through.
“Which way are you going?” I asked him suddenly.
“Gaw-ing?” he said, in a surprised tone. “Why, stwaight on, of cawse—stwaight on!”
“Then, I’m going round here!” I said, wheeling off abruptly at a right angle from the road we had been pursuing, and going out of my way in order to get rid of him.
Flesh and blood could no longer stand his unmeaning, yet gibing platitudes.
“Bai-ey Je-ove!” he exclaimed. “But, stawp, my deah fellah. Lorton, I asshaw you I only meant to say—ah—that Miss Clyde sang my songs most divinely—ah—and that she’s—ah—a vewy nice gahl—ah!”
Confound him!
What business had he to say or think anything of the sort?
I could faintly hear his voice exclaim “Bai-ey Je-ove!” in the distance, after some seconds’ interval, during which we had become widely separated.
I was as thoroughly out of temper as I could possibly be.
I was angry with everybody in the world, Min not excepted, and with the world itself; but, at myself, more than all.