The General fortunately gave
him little time to answer.
"She's up to get herself some dresses, I suppose? I've seen nothing of
you for a long time. When are you coming to dine with me? I heard at
Epsom that you'd sold your horse. What made you do that? What's your
father telegraphing to me like this for? It's not like him. Your
mother's not ill, is she?"
George shook his head, and muttering something about "Sorry, an
engagement--awful hurry," was gone.
Left thus abruptly to himself, General Pendyce summoned a page, slowly
pencilled something on his card, and with his back to the only persons
in the hall, waited, his hands folded on the handle of his cane. And
while he waited he tried as far as possible to think of nothing. Having
served his country, his time now was nearly all devoted to waiting,
and to think fatigued and made him feel discontented, for he had had
sunstroke once, and fever several times. In the perfect precision of his
collar, his boots, his dress, his figure; in the way from time to time
he cleared his throat, in the strange yellow driedness of his face
between his carefully brushed whiskers, in the immobility of his white
hands on his cane, he gave the impression of a man sucked dry by a
system. Only his eyes, restless and opinionated, betrayed the essential
Pendyce that was behind.
Pages:
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263