There are women always in the market
ready to buy for themselves the right to hang on the arm of a real
gentleman. That Mr. Maurice Maule was a real gentleman no judge in
such matters had ever doubted.
On a certain morning just at the end of February Mr. Maule was
sitting in his library,--so-called,--eating his breakfast, at about
twelve o'clock; and at his side there lay a note from his son Gerard.
Gerard had written to say that he would call on that morning, and the
promised visit somewhat disturbed the father's comfort. He was in
his dressing-gown and slippers, and had his newspaper in his hand.
When his newspaper and breakfast should be finished,--as they would
be certainly at the same moment,--there were in store for him two
cigarettes, and perhaps some new French novel which had just reached
him. They would last him till two o'clock. Then he would dress and
saunter out in his great coat, made luxurious with furs. He would
see a picture, or perhaps some china-vase, of which news had reached
him, and would talk of them as though he might be a possible buyer.
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