The limit of things pardonable had been passed. His face was white and
keen as a sword. The weight of years and of failing health had
vanished, burned up by fierce disgust and anger, as is mist by the
sun-heat. He was young, arrogant in bearing, careless of consequence or
of danger as some fifteenth-century finely bred fighting man face to
face with his enemy and traducer, who, given honourable opportunity, he
would kill or be killed by, without faintest scruple or remorse. And of
this temper of mind his aspect was so eloquent that de Courcy Smyth,
muddled with liquor though he was, seeing him, was seized with panic.
He scrambled to his feet, flung himself behind the chair, clinging to
the back of it for support.
"Don't look at me like that, you Spanish devil!" he whimpered. "You
paralyse me. You hypnotise me. My brain is splitting. You're drawing
the life out of me. I shall go mad. If you come a step nearer I'll make
a scandal. I'll call for help. Ah! God in heaven, who's that?"
Only the housemaid entering, salver in hand, and leaving the door wide
open behind her. Upon the landing with out, Farge and Worthington, in
comic attitudes, stood at attention.
"A telegram for you, sir. Is the boy to wait?" she inquired, in a
stifled voice. "She could hardly keep a straight face," as she reported
downstairs subsequently, "that ridiculous Farge was so full of his
jokes."
Iglesias tore open the yellow envelope and held the telegraph-form to
the light.
"Glorious luck. Happy as a queen. Come to supper after performance
to-morrow. Love. Poppy."
His face softened.
"No answer," he said, and turned purposing to speak some word of mercy
to wretched de Courcy Smyth. But the latter had slunk out at the open
door, while Mr. Farge, in an ungovernable paroxysm of humour--levelled
at the departing housemaid--effectually covered his retreat by
cake-walking, with very high knee action, the length of the landing,
playing appropriate dance-music, the while, upon an imaginary banjo in
the shape of Worthington's new crook-handled walking stick.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account