AI Classic Books

81423.

81424.

Scrap wanted to know so much about her mother that Arundel had presently to invent. He would talk about anything she wished if only he might be with her for a while and see her and hear her, but he knew very little of the Droitwiches and their friends really—beyond meeting them at those bigger functions where literature is also represented, and amusing them at luncheons and dinners, he knew very little of them really. To them he had always remained Mr. Arundel; no one called him Ferdinand; and he only knew the gossip also available to the evening papers and the frequenters of clubs. But he was, however, good at inventing; and as soon as he had come to an end of first-hand knowledge, in order to answer her inquiries and keep her there to himself he proceeded to invent. It was quite easy to fasten some of the entertaining things he was constantly thinking on to other people and pretend they were theirs. Scrap, who had that affection for her parents which warms in absence, was athirst for news, and became more and more interested by the news he gradually imparted.

81425.

81426.

81427.

81428.

81429.

81430.

81431.

81432.

81433.

81434.

81435.

81436.

81437.

81438.

81439.

81440.

81441.

He got as far away from the fire as he could, and stood in one of the deep window-recesses looking out at the distant lights of Mezzago. The drawing-room door was open, and the house was quiet with the hush that precedes dinner, when the inhabitants are all shut up in their rooms dressing. Briggs in his room was throwing away spoilt tie after spoilt tie; Scrap in hers was hurrying into a black frock with a vague notion that Mr. Briggs wouldn’t be able to see her so clearly in black; Mrs. Fisher was fastening the lace shawl, which nightly transformed her day dress into her evening dress, with the brooch Ruskin had given her on her marriage, formed of two pearl lilies tied together by a blue enamel ribbon on which was written in gold letters  Esto perpetua;  Mr. Wilkins was sitting on the edge of his bed brushing his wife’s hair—thus far in this third week had he progressed in demonstrativeness—while she, for her part, sitting on a chair in front of him, put his studs in a clean shirt; and Rose, ready dressed, sat at her window considering her day.

81442.

81443.

81444.

81445.

81446.

81447.

81448.

81449.

But on one thing she was determined: the first thing she would do when she got home would be to have it out with Frederick. If he didn’t come to San Salvatore that is what she would do—the very first thing. Long ago she ought to have done this, but always she had been handicapped, when she tried to, by being so dreadfully fond of him and so much afraid that fresh wounds were going to be given her wretched, soft heart. But now let him wound her as much as he chose, as much as he possibly could, she would still have it out with him. Not that he ever intentionally wounded her; she knew he never meant to, she knew he often had no idea of having done it. For a person who wrote books, thought Rose, Frederick didn’t seem to have much imagination. Anyhow, she said to herself, getting up from the dressing-table, things couldn’t go on like this. She would have it out with him. This separate life, this freezing loneliness, she had had enough of it. Why shouldn’t she too be happy? Why on earth—the energetic expression matched her mood of rebelliousness—shouldn’t she too be loved and allowed to love?

81450.

81451.

81452.

81453.

81454.

81455.

81456.

81457.

81458.

81459.

81460.

81461.

81462.

81463.

81464.

81465.

81466.

81467.

81468.

81469.

81470.

81471.

81472.

81473.

81474.

81475.