The Argosy — page 265: what you’re looking at

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

246 Court Netherleigh. handkerchief. Where was the use of your making a mystery over it ? Why couldn’t you say that you knew her ?” ““T made no mystery, my good fellow. JI did not know it was Selina Dalrymple you were speaking of. JI used to meet her years ago at Court Netherleigh, Whom. has she married? What’s her name ?” ‘What is the matter with you?” cried Captain Stanley, looking at the Viscount. ‘‘ You call her Selina Dalrymple, and then ask what her name is. Do you suppose she bears one name, and her husband another ?” “She has never married Oscar Dalrymple!” exclaimed Lord Winchester, in a lively tone. ‘“‘ Has she?” ‘““Her husband is the only Dalrymple I know of in the land of the living. <A cold, dry, wizen-faced man.” “So ho, Oscar Dalrymple! It is better to be born lucky than rich. Moat Grange and its fairest flower! You did not bargain for that, once upona time. Poor Robert Dalrymple: he was nobody’s enemy but his own.” ‘“You mean her brother. He went out of the world ungenteelly, I believe, as Miss Bailey’s ghost says. I did not know him.” “The Oscar Dalrymples are up in town for the season, I suppose?” ‘““Ay. They have taken part of a small house in Berkeley Street— not being rich.” “Anything but that, I should fancy.” “Tt is said he did not want to come to town; hates it. Only, her heart was set upon it, and he can’t deny her anything.” eS “Oh, that’s it, 1s it,” returned Lord Winchester. That was it. Selina Dalrymple, the bride of a month or two, had made Oscar promise that they should spend part of the season in town. Vain, giddy, and thoughtless, Selina’s heart was revelling in the pleasures of this London life, her head turned with the admiration she received. Alas! she had all too speedily forgotten the tragical end of her once-loved brother, though it came but a year ago. Amidst all this whirl of gaiety there was no time to remember ¢/az. Mrs. Dalrymple’s carriage had continued its course. It was now on its way to her dressmaker’s, Madame Damereau. Dead now, and the once large business dispersed, Madame Damereau, a French- woman, was famous in that gone-by day. An enormous custom— clientele she used to call it—had she. Her house was handsome, and, so far as its appearance went, strictly private. It was in a private street amid other handsome houses, and there was nothing to betray its business save the brass-plate on the wide mahogany door— ‘““Madame Damereau.” It was as handsome inside as out; its rooms were a mixture of Parisian taste and English comfort, with their velvet carpets, rich crimson furniture, brilliant mirrors, and orna- mental objects of porcelain, all delicate landscape painting and burnished gold. Surely rooms, so elaborately fitted up, were not Gomicboo SS (E©) m