Patience Sparhawk and Her Times: A NovelAtherton, Gertrude Franklin Horn
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Patience Sparhawk and Her Times: A Novel
Atherton, Gertrude Franklin Horn
American fiction -- 19th century
Mrs. Peele and the girls returned with the June roses; the house was
filled with guests at once. The Cuban had gone to his islands for the
summer, and May chose to wear the willow and occasionally to weep upon
Patience’s unsympathetic shoulder; but as frequently she consoled
herself with the transient flirtation. Hal, apparently, was her old gay
self. She did not mention Wynne’s name, and Patience was equally
reticent.
“I should be the last to remind any woman of what she wished to forget,”
she thought. “And love—what does it amount to anyhow? If He came I
believe I should hate him, because once I felt something like passion
for him too.”
She had looked forward with some curiosity to meeting Latimer Burr. He
also had been in Paris. He followed his lady home on the next steamer,
and immediately upon his return came to Peele Manor. Patience did not
meet him until dinner. She sat beside him, and at once became acutely
aware that he was a man of superlative physical magnetism. She
proscribed him accordingly—magnetism was a repellent force at this
stage of her development. She was rather surprised that she could feel
it again, so completely had Beverly’s evaporated.
Burr was a tall heavily built man about forty years old. He carried
himself and wore his clothes as only a New York man can. His face was
florid and well modelled, his mouth and half closed eyes sensual. But
his voice and manners were charming. He appeared to be deeply in love
with Hal, and his voice became a caress when he spoke to her. Patience
did not like his type, but she forgave him individually because he was
fond of Hal and appeared to possess brains.
She fell into conversation with him, and his manner would have led her
to believe that while she spoke neither Hal nor any other woman existed.
To this Patience gave little attention: she had met that manner before;
it was pleasant, and she missed it when lacking; but she had practised
it too often herself to feel more than its passing fascination. His
eyes, however, were more insistently eloquent than his manner, and their
eloquence was of the order that induced discomposure.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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