But then M. de
Chauxville knew as well as you and I--Lady Mealhead no doubt had told
him--that she was the daughter of a clergyman, and had chosen the stage
in preference to the school-room as a means of supporting her aged
mother. Whether M. de Chauxville believed this or not, it is not for us
to enquire. He certainly looked as if he believed it when Lady Mealhead
told him--and his expressive Gallic eyes waxed tender at the mention of
her mother, the relict of the late clergyman, whose name had somehow
been overlooked by Crockford. A Frenchman loves his mother--in the
abstract.
Nor could M. de Chauxville take exception at young Cyril Squyrt, the
poet. Cyril looked like a poet. He wore his hair over his collar at the
back, and below the collar-bone in front. And, moreover, he was a
poet--one of those who write for ages yet unborn. Besides, his poems
could be bought (of the publisher only; the railway bookstall men did
not understand them) beautifully bound; really beautifully bound in
white kid, with green ribbon--a very thin volume and very thin poetry.
Meddlesome persons have been known to state that Cyril Squyrt's father
kept a prosperous hot-sausage-and-mashed-potato shop in Leeds. But one
must not always believe all that one hears.
It appears that beneath the turf, or on it, all men are equal, so no one
could object to the presence of Billy Bale, the man, by Gad! who could
give you the straight tip on any race, and looked like it.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37