One of Our Conquerors - World eBook Library

One of Our Conquerors
His master had fixed his arrival for twenty minutes earlier.
Skepsey spoke through a cough of long delays at stations.
The Rev. Septimus Barmby, officially peacemaker, sounded
the consequent excuse for a belated comer. It was final; such
is the power of sound. Looks were cast from the French section
of the table at the owner of the prodigious organ. Some
of the younger men, intent on the charms of Albion’s daughters,
expressed in a, sign and a word or two alarm at what
might be beneath the flooring: and ‘Pas encore Lui!’ and
‘Son avant-courrier!’ and other flies of speech passed on a
whiff, under politest of cover, not to give offence. But prodigies,
claim attention.
Our English, at the close of the dinner, consented to say it
was good, without specifying a dish, because a selection of
this or that would have seemed to italicize, and commit, them,
in the presence of ladies, to a notice of the matter of-course,
beneath us, or the confession of a low sensual enjoyment;
until Lady Grace Halley named the particular dressing of a
tete de veau approvingly to Victor; and he stating, that he
had offered a suggestion for the menu of the day, Nataly
exclaimed, that she had suspected it: upon which Mr. Sowerby
praised the menu, Mr. Barmby, Peridon and Catkin named
other dishes, there was the right after-dinner ring in Victor’s
ears, thanks to the woman of the world who had travelled
round to nature and led the shackled men to deliver themselves
heartily. One tap, and they are free. That is, in the
moments after dinner, when nature is at the gates with them.
Only, it must be a lady and a prevailing lady to give the tap.
They need (our English) and will for the ages of the process
of their transformation need a queen.
Skepsey, bag in hand, obeyed the motion of his master’s
head and followed him.
He was presently back, to remain with the ladies during
his master’s perusal of letters. Nataly had decreed that he
was not to be troubled; so Nesta and mademoiselle besought
him for a recital of his French adventures; and strange to say,
he had nothing to tell. The journey, pregnant at the start,
exciting in the course of it, was absolutely blank at the termination.
French people had been very kind; he could not
say more. But there was more; there was a remarkable fulness,
if only he could subordinate it to narrative. The little man
did not know, that time was wanted for imagination to make
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