He stood well back upon his legs and
said: .
"We ought to get them up to two thousand three hundred and
fifty." A stable-boy brought him a telegram and went away. He
opened it negligently, regarded it without emotion, and, in
complete silence, handed it to me. On the pinkish paper in a
sprawled handwriting I read: "Safe Brindisi. Having rattling good
time. Nancy."
Well, Edward was the English gentleman; but he was also, to the
last, a sentimentalist, whose mind was compounded of indifferent
poems and novels. He just looked up to the roof of the stable, as if
he were looking to Heaven, and whispered something that I did
not catch.
Then he put two fingers into the waistcoat pocket of his grey,
frieze suit; they came out with a little neat pen-knife--quite a
small pen-knife. He said to me:
"You might just take that wire to Leonora." And he looked at me
with a direct, challenging, brow-beating glare. I guess he could
see in my eyes that I didn't intend to hinder him. Why should I
hinder him?
I didn't think he was wanted in the world, let his confounded
tenants, his rifle-associations, his drunkards, reclaimed and
unreclaimed, get on as they liked.
Pages:
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339