Excerpt: ...smiling. "Nothing so amusing. Mokembe's my destination." "Oh, Mokembe!" said Lord Lackington, a little abashed. "That's where Cecil Ray, Lord R's second son, was killed last year--lion-hunting? No, it was of fever that he died. By-the-way, a vile climate!" "In the plains, yes," said Warkworth, seating himself. "As to the uplands, I understand they are to be the Switzerland of Africa." Lord Lackington did not appear to listen. "Are you a homoeopath?" he said, suddenly, rising to his full and immense stature and looking down with eagerness on Warkworth. "No. Why?" "Because it's your only chance, for those parts. If Cecil Ray had had their medicines with him he'd be alive now. Look here; when do you start?" The speaker took out his note-book. "In rather less than a month I start for Denga." "All right. I'll send you a medicine-case--from Epps. If you're ill, take 'em." "You're very good." "Not at all. It's my hobby--one of the last." A broad, boyish smile flashed over the handsome old face. "Look at me; I'm seventy-five, and I can tire out my own grandsons at riding and shooting. That comes of avoiding all allopathic messes like the devil. But the allopaths are such mean fellows they filch all our ideas." The old man was off. Warkworth submitted to five minutes' tirade, stealing a glance sometimes at the group of Julie, Meredith, and Delafield in the farther window--at the happy ease and fun that seemed to prevail in it. He fiercely felt himself shut out and trampled on. Suddenly, Lord Lackington pulled up, his instinct for declamation qualified by an equally instinctive dread of boring or being bored. "What did you think of Montresor's statement?" he said, abruptly, referring to a batch of army reforms that Montresor the week before had endeavored to recommend to a sceptical House of Commons. "All very well, as far as it goes," said Warkworth, with a shrug. "Precisely! We English want an army and a navy; we don't like it when those fellows on the...
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Excerpt from Lady Rose's Daughter: A Novel
" Hullo! No! - Yes! - upon my soul, it is Jacob! Why, Delafield, my dear fellow, how are you?"
So saying - on a February evening a good many years ago - an elderly gentleman in evening dress flung himself out of his cab, which had just stopped before a house in Bruton Street, and hastily went to meet a young man who was at the same moment stepping out of another hansom a little farther down the pavement.
The pleasure in the older man's voice rang clear, and the younger met him with an equal cordiality, expressed perhaps through a manner more leisurely and restrained.
"So you are home, Sir Wilfrid? You were announced, I saw. But I thought Paris would have detained you a bit."
"Paris? Not I! Half the people I ever knew there are dead, and the rest are uncivil. Well, and how are you getting on? Making your fortune, eh?"
And, slipping his arm inside the young man's, the speaker walked back with him, along a line of carriages, towards a house which showed a group of footmen at its open door. Jacob Delafield smiled.
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