There were moments when Claire was almost impelled to forfeit
whatever chance she might have had of becoming mistress of thirty
million dollars and a flourishing business, for the satisfaction
of administering just one whole-hearted slap on his round and
thinly-covered head.
And then Roscoe Sherriff came down, and Dudley Pickering, who for
days had been using all his resolution to struggle against the
siren, suddenly found that there was no siren to struggle against.
No sooner had the press agent appeared than Claire deserted him
shamelessly and absolutely. She walked with Roscoe Sherriff. Mr
Pickering experienced the discomfiting emotions of the man who
pushes violently against an abruptly-yielding door, or treads
heavily on the top stair where there is no top stair. He was
shaken, and the clamlike stolidity which he had assumed as
protection gave way.
Night had descended upon Brookport. Eustace, the monkey, was in
his little bed; Lord Wetherby in the smoking-room. It was Sunday,
the day of rest. Dinner was over, and the remainder of the party
were gathered in the drawing-room, with the exception of Mr
Pickering, who was smoking a cigar on the porch. A full moon
turned Long Island into a fairyland.
Gloom had settled upon Dudley Pickering and he smoked sadly.
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