There he had merely been a
good-natured, harmless person of entertaining conversation, who helped
to make luncheons agreeable. Now it appeared that he too was a
grabber. Fancy following her out there--daring to. Nobody else had.
Perhaps her mother had given him the address because she considered him
so absolutely harmless, and thought he might be useful and see her
home.
Well, whatever he was he couldn't possibly give her the trouble
an active young man like Mr. Briggs might give her. Mr. Briggs,
infatuated, would be reckless, she felt, would stick at nothing, would
lose his head publicly. She could imagine Mr. Briggs doing things with
rope-ladders, and singing all night under her window--being really
difficult and uncomfortable. Mr. Arundel hadn't the figure for any
kind of recklessness. He had lived too long and too well. She was
sure he couldn't sing, and wouldn't want to. He must be at least
forty. How many good dinners could not a man have eaten by the time he
was forty? And if during that time instead of taking exercise he had
sat writing books, he would quite naturally acquire the figure Mr.
Arundel had in fact acquired--the figure rather for conversation than
adventure.
Scrap, who had become melancholy at the sight of Briggs, became
philosophical at the sight of Arundel.
Pages:
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298