Adam Johnstone's SonCrawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion)
General
Adam Johnstone's Son
Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion)
British -- Italy -- Fiction; Divorce -- Fiction; Love stories
For some reason or other, several of the party laughed, and from their
tone one might have guessed that they were in the habit of laughing, or
were expected to laugh, at the lady's speeches. And every one agreed
that it would be much nicer to spend the evening on the terrace, and
that it was a pity that they could not dine out of doors because it
would be far too cool. Then the lady in white and the man called Brook
began to walk furiously up and down in the fading light, while the lady
talked very fast in a low voice, except when she was passing within
earshot of some of the others, and the man looked straight before him,
answering occasionally in monosyllables.
Then there was more confusion in the hotel, and the Russian invalid
expressed his opinion to the two English old maids, with whom he
fraternised, that dinner would be an hour late, thanks to their
compatriots. But they assumed an expression appropriate when speaking of
the peerage, and whispered that the yacht must belong to the Duke of
Orkney, who, they had read, was cruising in the Mediterranean, and that
the Duke was probably the big man in grey clothes who had a gold
cigarette case. But in all this they were quite mistaken. And their
repeated examinations of the hotel register were altogether fruitless,
because none of the party had written their names in it. The old maids,
however, were quite happy and resigned to waiting for their dinner. They
presently retired to attempt for themselves what stingy nature had
refused to do for them in the way of adornment, for the dinner was
undoubtedly to be an occasion of state, and their eyes were to see the
glory of a lord.
The party sat together at one end of the table, which extended the whole
length of the high and narrow vaulted hall, while the guests staying in
the hotel filled the opposite half. Most of the guests were more subdued
than usual, and the party from the yacht seemed noisy by contrast. The
old maids strained their ears to catch a name here and there. Clare and
her mother talked little. The Russian invalid put up a single eyeglass,
looked long and curiously at each of the new comers in turn, and then
did not vouchsafe them another glance. The German family criticised the
food severely, and then got into a fierce discussion about Bismarck and
the Pope, in the course of which they forgot the existence of their
fellow-diners, but not of their dinner.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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