The Argosy — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

58 Number Twenty-five. pants of the table behind me were taking their places. I could see one of them distinctly in a long mirror in front of me. A lady who insisted on being young and beautiful, and zas undeniably well- dressed. She wore a queer mixture of coral pink cashmere and grey brocade, with clasps and ornaments of oxydised silver and coral. Nothing else about her worth looking at, I decided. ‘A blonde— paper-white instead of milk-white—green shadows instead of warm ones—eyelashes too light—waist too tight—elbows too sharp— nearer thirty than twenty—the gown suggests—‘ Trousseau.’” What is Ae like, I wonder ?P I could only catch at intervals a glimpse of a long white nose above a heavy black moustache, turned deferentially to the little woman whenever she spoke—and she spoke a good deal, with much vivacious raising of the eyebrows and arch glancing of her china blue eyes. I could also see his right hand now and then as he lifted or put down a glass, and I didn’t like it. I believe in the expression of a man’s hand, though it is given to few to read it accurately. When the door opened to admit a party of ladies and gentlemen, Madame’s animation increased. She shook out her draperies, unfurled her big pink feather fan and posed effectively. Her companion didn’t seem to sympathize. I heard his chair give an impatient scroop; he dis- posed of his last glass of wine hastily, picked up her bouquet of azaleas, and made way for her to pass out; which she did lingeringly, watched with much interest by the party at the large table. My bride and groom appeared in the visitors’ book as ‘‘ The Hon. Claude © and Mrs. Loseby.” ‘““Loseby? Ah, a son of Lord Rotherwode’s—a bad lot I fancy,” was my mental comment, as wearily yawning, I ascended to my room, candlestick in hand. I passed the object of my reflections in converse with one of the chambermaids on the landing—an unat- tractive female with a grim white face and heavy black fringe—and, further on, as I passed the door of one of the private sitting-rooms, heard what I determined to be Mrs. Claude Loseby’s voice singing a fashionable ballad with intense expression, to a slovenly accompani- ment. Up early next morning and out toa fresh, newly-washed, spray- besprinkled world. There had been a storm in the night, and the brown shingle was flecked with quivering patches of foam and dark wreaths of tangle. The hotel stood at the commencement of a sea-wall and parade, extending at that time some two hundred yards westwards. The sea had scattered pebbles and sand over the asphalte, and tossed about the huge blocks of stone at the unfinished end, as if they had been brickbats. I hurried back for breakfast and my sketching things, and returned just as the sun, breaking from a bank of softly piled grey clouds, set the whole glorious field of the sea sparkling and glancing right away over to France. I had worked for an hour or so, before the tall hulking figure ECOPMICDOO KS, EO) m