After bidding Elizabeth turn the cold meat into curry
and judiciously water the soup to make it enough for four instead of
three, I tidied my hair and descended into the hall to see Henry
helping a man off with his overcoat--and such a man! It was the
dashing, the handsome, the witty Harvey Trevor (political writer on the
_Morning Sun_).
It was too late to back upstairs again and improvise upon my toilette,
for they both looked up and saw me at that moment. So there I stood,
like a stag at bay, with my nose unpowdered (Henry would say that a
stag doesn't powder its nose, but you will know what I mean) wearing my
dullest and most uninspired house-frock, and hurling silent anathemas
at my heartless husband.
You will now understand how useless Henry was as an ally in my
matrimonial plans for Marion. But I was doggedly determined that she
should make some man happy. At last, indeed, it seemed as though my
efforts were to be crowned with success when George Harbinger appeared
on the scene.
He took to her at once and said that she was just the sort of girl his
mother would like. He declared that Marion's oyster patties were
things of pure delight and ought to be eaten to slow music. (Yes, I
always got Marion to make some of her special pastry when the eligibles
came to dine.) He openly sought her society. They even played
draughts together and he always won.
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