The voice in the drawing-room stopped. Having sung songs of Araby
and tales of far Cashmere, Mr Roscoe Sherriff was refreshing
himself with a comic paper. But Lady Wetherby, seated at the
piano, still touched the keys softly, and the sound increased the
richness of the mixture which choked Dudley Pickering's spiritual
carburettor. It is not fair that a rather stout manufacturer
should be called upon to sit in the moonlight while a beautiful
girl, to the accompaniment of soft music, reproaches him with
having avoided her.
'I should be so sorry, Mr Pickering, if I had done anything to
make a difference between us--'
'Eh?' said Mr Pickering.
'I have so few real friends over here.'
Claire's voice trembled.
'I--I get a little lonely, a little homesick sometimes--'
She paused, musing, and a spasm of pity rent the bosom beneath
Dudley Pickering's ample shirt. There was a buzzing in his ears
and a lump choked his throat.
'Of course, I am loving the life here. I think America's
wonderful, and nobody could be kinder than Lady Wetherby. But--I
miss my home. It's the first time I have been away for so long. I
feel very far away sometimes. There are only three of us at home:
my mother, myself, and my little brother--little Percy.'
Her voice trembled again as she spoke the last two words, and it
was possibly this that caused Mr Pickering to visualize Percy as a
sort of little Lord Fauntleroy, his favourite character in English
literature.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129