The Argosy — page 48: what you’re looking at

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

38 tC Our First Term at Oxford. cared for Sophie Chalk—there could be little doubt of it—as one never © cares for anybody again in life: and it might be just as well—in spite of the exposé of Mademoiselle’s false ways and misdoings—that they did not meet. Syrens are syrens all the world over. The day went on to a bright moonlight night. Tod and I, out for a stroll, were standing within the shade of the fine old Magdalen Tower, talking to a fellow of Trinity, when there came up a lady of delicate presence, the flowers in her bonnet exhaling a faint odour of perfume. “IT think Iam not mistaken—I am sure—yes, I am sure it is Mr. Ludlow. And—surely that cannot be Mr. Todhetley ?”’ Tod wheeled round at the soft, false voice. The daintily gloved hand was held out to him; the fair, false face was bent close: and his own face turned red and white with emotion. I saw it even in the shade of the moonlight. Had she been strolling about to look for us? Most likely. A few moments more, and we were all three walking onwards together. | ‘Only fancy my position !” she gaily said. ‘‘ Here am I, all forlorn, set down alone in this great town, and must take care of myself as I best can. The formidable gowns and caps fnghten me.” ‘‘The gowns and caps will do you no harm—Miss Chalk,” cried Tod—and he only just saved himself from saying ‘ Sophie.” “Do you think not,” she returned, touching the sleeve of her velvet jacket, as if to brush off a fly. ‘‘ But I beg you will accord me my due style and title, Mr. Todhetley, and honour me aceordingly. I am no longer Missus Chalk. I am Mrs. Everty.” So she had marmied Mr. Everty after all! She minced along between us in her silk gown, her hands in her ermine muff that looked made for a doll. At the private door of a shop in High Street she halted, , rang the bell, and threw the door open. “You will walk up and take a cup of tea with me. Nay, but you must—or I shall think you want to hold yourselves above poor little me, now you are grand Oxford men.” She went along the passage and up the stairs: there seemed no re- source but to follow. In the sitting-room, which was very well furnished and looked out on the street, a fire burned brightly; and a lamp and the tea-things stood on the table. ‘Where have you been ?—keeping me waiting for my tea in this way! You never think of anybody but yourself: never.” The querulous complaint, and thin, shrill voice came from a small dark girl who sat at the window, peering out into the lighted street. I had not forgotten the sharp-featured, sallow face and the deep-set eyes. It was Mabel Smith, the poor little lame and deformed girl I had seen in Torriana Square. She really did not look much older or bigger, and . she spoke as abruptly as ever. | . ECORNICLOOO $.CoOmM —_)