“And did the countess take the matter quietly?” I asked.
I like a tidy story, where everybody is put into his or her proper place at the end. Your modern romance leaves half his characters lying about just anyhow.
“That also I cannot tell you for certain,” answered the doctor, “but I give her credit for so much sense. Lord C--- was of age, and with Mary at his elbow, quite knew his own mind. I believe they travelled for two or three years. The first time I myself set eyes on the countess (née Mary Sewell) was just after the late earl’s death. I thought she looked a countess, every inch of her, but then I had not heard the story. I mistook the dowager for the housekeeper.”
BLASÉ BILLY
It was towards the end of August. He and I appeared to be the only two men left to the Club. He was sitting by an open window, the Times lying on the floor beside him. I drew my chair a little closer and remarked:—“Good morning.”
He suppressed a yawn, and replied “Mornin’”—dropping the “g.” The custom was just coming into fashion; he was always correct.
“Going to be a very hot day, I am afraid,” I continued.
“’Fraid so,” was the response, after which he turned his head away and gently closed his eyes.
I opined that conversation was not to his wish, but this only made me more determined to talk, and to talk to him above all others in London. The desire took hold of me to irritate him—to break down the imperturbable calm within which he moved and had his being; and I gathered myself together, and settled down to the task.
“Interesting paper the Times,” I observed.