I don't
think her august presence had had to do with Paraday's consenting
to go, but it's not impossible he had operated as a bait to the
illustrious stranger. The party had been made up for him, Mrs.
Wimbush averred, and every one was counting on it, the dear
Princess most of all. If he was well enough he was to read them
something absolutely fresh, and it was on that particular prospect
the Princess had set her heart. She was so fond of genius in ANY
walk of life, and was so used to it and understood it so well: she
was the greatest of Mr. Paraday's admirers, she devoured everything
he wrote. And then he read like an angel. Mrs. Wimbush reminded
me that he had again and again given her, Mrs. Wimbush, the
privilege of listening to him.
I looked at her a moment. "What has he read to you?" I crudely
enquired.
For a moment too she met my eyes, and for the fraction of a moment
she hesitated and coloured. "Oh all sorts of things!"
I wondered if this were an imperfect recollection or only a perfect
fib, and she quite understood my unuttered comment on her measure
of such things. But if she could forget Neil Paraday's beauties
she could of course forget my rudeness, and three days later she
invited me, by telegraph, to join the party at Prestidge.
Pages:
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60