Though for an hour he continued talking, he said nothing—at least, he said nothing I have remembered. The extraordinary thing about him was that, in spite of his timidity, his seeming apprehensiveness, he left on my mind a deep impression of adventure—not of a man who sought physical, but spiritual, risks. I think he is a poet who cannot refrain from exacerbating his own soul, who must at all costs place his mind in danger and escape only at the last moment. I believe he is intensely morbid, delighting to brood over dark things, seeing no humour in life, but full of a baffled chivalry, a nobility thwarted at every turn.
with private means and clear prospects, who would make an excellent husband; it was a chance in a thousand, and if the fellow were ready and anxious to marry the penniless daughter of a poverty-stricken country clergyman, the vicar did not intend to discourage him nor to take the hazard of sentimental and unnecessary delays.
“‘Will he be fool enough to do it?’ he asked, as he looked the old counterfeit over.
Even that prospect did not seem to alarm steady-going Jack.
“I did not mean to insult my sister,” cried Constance, springing to her feet. “She is so well brought up, that she accepted whatever you chose to say to her, forgetting that she was a woman, that she was a lady.”
As soon as he was well out of the water, General Klapka sent one of his young officers, who looked as crestfallen as himself, to order their horses; but, in the little time that elapsed before his departure, Mademoiselle Orviéff seemed determined, by her endless regrets and apologies, not to let him forget his mishap, while, by a singular process of feminine logic, she taxed Count Kourásoff with being the sole cause of the accident. He, after all, had saved the fan, and bore her reproaches with great coolness. When at last General Klapka, sulky and discomfited, rode off Mademoiselle Olga and the count laughed at him as if they would never tire, and seemed to think his misfortune a source of boundless amusement; but I began to see that there were some tragic elements in this comedy they were playing.
"Was his name Creach or Graeme," I went on.
And when Amos saw the steady stream of men in khaki being carried to the operating tables he stared hard at each and every one as though really afraid deep down in his brotherly heart he was fated to find Frank there, a mangled wreck, and utterly beyond the task of going back home to say good-bye to the father who yearned to receive his forgiveness.
Suddenly, as though the horror of her own situation for the first time burst upon her, Célestine uttered a piercing shriek, and, flinging herself upon Poirot, poured out a torrent of incoherent French.
Copyright © 2020