Guy Earlscourt's Wife — page 74: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

48 After Fourte en Years. told me, who is said to be paying attention to the rich “Tiss Hautton, and all the gentry in the neighborhood are to- be there to-day.” “TL should think,” said Rosanna, getting the muslin robe ready for the iron, “Lord Montalien would have made all this to-do when his eldest son and heir came of age, instead of this younger one.” “Myr. Guy is his favorite—everybody knows it. Mrs. Ham- per told ine the story. Lord Montalien,’ said Poliy, in- tensely interested in her theme, “was married twice—i heard all about it in the peerage, up at the Psiory. His iirst wife was rich, and plain, and ten years older than my lord, and a mateh of his father’s choosing. Lord Montalien was in love with somebody else, but he yielded to his father and married the rich and ugly Miss Huntingdon, and hated her like poison.” “Polly 1, “Well, L don’t know, of course—I should think he did—I would in his place! But, fortunately, she died two years after her marriage, leaving Mr. Iranecis, and there was his lord- ship tree again. Of course he immediately returned to his first love, an Italian lady, and, oh, such a beauty! Her pic- ture’s up there in her boudoir, and Mr. Guy is her son. ‘She died before a great while, too, and Lord Montalien has been a sort of Bamfyid More Carew ever sinee, wandering about like Noah’s dove, and finding no rest for the sole of his foot.” “Polly—don’t be irreverent !” “And so you see, Rosanna,” pursued Polly, paying no at- tention, “it’s clear enough how Mr. Guy comes to be his fa- vorite. He locks like his mother, whom his father loved, and Mr. Francis looks like his mother, whom his father detested. Lhat’s logic, isn’t it? Mr. Francis is very well-locking, you know, but Mr. Guy-—oh, Rosanna! Mr. Guy’s an angel!” With which Polly bounced away before Rosanni’s shocked exclamation had time to be uttered. | When Polly gleefully told Duke of her intention to ge the ball, and of the possibility of her being captured by vne of the grandees there, something rose in the honest fellow’s throat and nearly choked him. Two willoyvy arms went round his neck in an instante “Why, Duke! Dear old Duke, don’t you want me to go? T nevor knew it—why didm’t you say so? Tl take off these things, and sit here with you all the afternoon.” He held the hands that would have flung the roses out of her belt. “No, duchess, gv to the ball, and enjoy yourself—and God comicbooks.com |