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

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

246 The White Cat. . said, had condemned myself to spend my vacation in an obscure country house, and Dorothy Braithwaite (but a rather pretty name, I thought), spinster, showed herself so unimpressed as to absent herself from the house the whole day. I felt disagreeable, and sipped my soup in silence. But with the fish came Dorothy. ‘‘T am sorry I am so late, aunt,” she said. ‘‘Mrs. Wade’s ‘Tommy has the measles, and I had to mind her other olive-branches while she fetched the doctor. ‘This is Mr. Oswald Jones?” I had risen, and she looked at me with a frank smile as we shook hands. “Tam terribly hungry,” she said. “I was beginning to fear that I should be too late to get anything.” She sat down and began to eat with a healthy appetite. I watched her. My foreboding was utterly stultified. Not angular, but tall and stately ; not sallow, but with a complexion of red and brown, fair hair, and a pair of eyes so large, blue, dark-fringed, expressive, that I felt my visit was not in vain. I would have gone twice as far to make the acquaintance of the owner of such eyes. She was not prim, but perfectly self-possessed. She seemed to ignore me. She seldom spoke during the meal, and when she did, it was to tell her aunt of some incident of her day’s work. Occasionally she would look up at me, and I was charmed with her delightful eyes. When the ladies left me, I did not linger long, but hastened after them. Lady Pownceby was settling herself for her post-prandial nap ; Dorothy was sitting at the window, leaning back in her chair, and looking out into the gathering dusk. “Come and sit here,” she said to me, and I placed a chair opposite her. “You must make yourself at home, Mr. Oswald Jones,” said a — sleepy voice from the other end of the room. ‘I’m an old woman ; you must put up with my weaknesses.” ‘Tam rather surprised to find myself here,” I said to Dorothy. “Are you? Aunt often speaks of you. She thinks a great deal of you.” “Indeed. I hardly know her.” “She reads the Zzmes, you know, and whenever she sees your name in the law reports she reads them with ten-fold interest. ‘Here’s Mr. Oswald Jones’s name again,’ she will say; ‘I really must know more of that young man.’” “Why does she always call me by my full name? Why not Mr. Jones simply ? ” “Oh, there are so many Joneses, you know. Our curate’s name is Jones, and no doubt she calls you Oswald Jones to distinguish you from him.” Perhaps Dorothy was to be assistant curate in a more particular sense. Strange to say, I felt jealous. But I was prevented from asking any questions by a sudden introduction to another inmate of Eomichbooks.co