Gray youth: The story of a very modern courtship and a very modern marriageOnions, Oliver
General
Gray youth: The story of a very modern courtship and a very modern marriage
Onions, Oliver
Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Marriage -- Fiction; Women -- Social and moral questions -- Fiction
She only wanted to borrow until the Christmas quarter; indeed, it was
not so much an advance on her allowance as an anticipation of the
Christmas present she was sure to receive from her uncle and aunt. Then
she would be straight again, and would know how to spend more wisely
for the future. And Dorothy could well afford it, if one might judge
of her fortune from her unhygienic but expensive dresses. If only
the rain would stop she would go to Dorothy at once. She knew that
Dorothy's position had improved, and, if the world chose to regard
its art as a parasitic thing, the artist could hardly be blamed if he
spoiled the Philistine whenever he had the opportunity. In one sense
she would actually be doing Dorothy a favour. A loan would put Dorothy
into the honourable position of being a patron. Many a Philistine name
lives on the formal page of an immortal work that otherwise would have
been forgotten.
Amory continued to watch the flounces of water that spilled from the
eaves and to listen to the runnings and gurglings of the West London
drainage system.
But all at once a merry "_Cooee!_" came from below; a flapping as of
shaken garments sounded in the entry; and a step and a call of "Amory!"
were heard on the stairs. It was the voice of Dorothy herself. The
door flew inwards, and Dorothy Lennard stood there, a pair of blue
eyes and the tip of a nose visible, the rest of her a shimmer of some
greenish-yellow material, thin as goldbeaters' skin and trickling
rivulets of water. She shook herself on the landing in a haze of
water-dust, like a dog that comes out of a pond, and then cried--
"Quick, Amory, and certify me--you shall take 'em off yourself and
feel--Mr. Miller said Sloane Street, but it was so near I thought I'd
come in--how are you?--No, I'll unbutton them, then your hands will be
quite dry to feel----"
She took from her head a sort of poke that fitted like a bathing-cap,
allowed the long garment to rustle in a small close heap to the floor,
and cried, "There! Now feel me!"
She seized Amory's wrist and patted herself with Amory's palm.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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