KATHLEEN, A LOVE STORY.
An excerpt from the beginning of:
CHAPTER I.
CIRCE.
"THERE she goes!" said Fayne, "on that light-built black. Jove! how she rides!"
All the men rushed to the window, as men will rush, to look at a feminine celebrity. Three of them there were— Brandon, Coyne, and Meynell. Fayne had a place in the window before. One man had not moved—that man was Carl Seymour; and belles were not his hobby, so he kept his seat and went on sketching.
"She," who was properly represented by Kate Davenant, passed by the Ocean House on a dashing trot, her groom following her; and when she was out of sight, the men came back to their seats again.
"I wonder if it's true?" said Brandon, half hesitatingly.
"If what is true?" asked Fayne.
"About— Well, they say she is such a dreadful flirt, you know. She don't look like it."
Carl Seymour shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't be so guileless, my dear fellow," he said. " Women never do ' look like it.' Innocence is their chief characteristic. Do you suppose Eve ' looked like it' when she gave Adam the apple ? No! If she had done, the masculine part of humanity, at least, would have been rusticating in the Garden of Eden to the present day."
" Have you ever met her?" asked Coyne, suddenly.
"Eve? No, not to my recollection."
"Miss Davenant, I mean?"
"No."
" Well," said Coyne, with an odd tone in his voice, "don't form any opinion until you have. You might be sorry afterward. Older men than you have risked their whole happiness upon that woman; wiser and as coolheaded men (I don't think there are many cooler-headed) would have given their lives for a smile from her lips." And he walked to the window with his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle softly. A little silence followed, one of those unaccountable silences which, sometimes, fall upon talkers with an odd sense of present discomfort or warning for the future.
Coyne was the oldest of the party, who were spending the summer at Newport. Kate Davenant had been the last arrival, and as she was a woman, and beautiful, she had been pretty liberally discussed. Perhaps the discussion had been all the more liberal, because Miss Davenant's fame had reached Newport before her. People, the stronger sex more especially, had a great deal to say about Miss Davenant. About her perfection of beauty, in the first place; about her wonderful magnetic fascination; about the tastefulness of her toilets; and last, but not least, about her aunt and chaperon, Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery. The latter lady was certainly all that society could desire as an indorsement. Rich, well-born, a leader of the ton in New York, her right to rule supreme was not to be disputed. But that did not account for Miss Davenant. Some bold inquirer had once ventured to ask about Kate, but had been decidedly snubbed, for Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery had merely placed her eyeglass in her aristocratic eye and stared her down, saying, "Kate is my adopted daughter," and front that day the irrepressible member had been "cut." So the matter rested, when Miss Davenant made her first appearance at Newport. Her costumes were superb pieces of art, her air was perfect, the witchery of her manner carried all before it. She might be the heiress of millions, even of billions, or she might be merely a dependent upon Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery—a poor relation—but to some people the uncertainty made the situation all the more piquant.
" George!" ejaculated young Spooney, who was an unsung hero on the lookout for a fortune, "it's like a lottery, jolly, but dangerous. Fellow puts down his money, and draws either a prize or a blank."
Now I will go back to the men who helped me to open my story.
Brandon, Fayne, and Meynell have gone to play billiards. Coyne and Seymour have stayed behind. The man with the clear eyes, straight features, and down-drooping blond moustache, is Carl Seymour: the dark-faced man who leans upon the window is Angus Coyne.
"I remember just such an evening as this spent by the sea-side, nine—no, ten years ago," said Seymour, and he broke off with a short, half-forced laugh.
Coyne looked up at him.
"What," he said, "have you a romance, too?"
Seymour laughed again.
"Yes. The oldest of all romances. A romance with a nine-year-old heroine."
"A romance, indeed," said Coyne. " But how did it become one?"
Seymour threw himself into an arm-chair, and looked out at the sea again with something of thought in his face.
"There are strange things in a man's life,” he said, musingly. "I often look back on mine, and wonder at the changing path that leads us all to the one ending—a mound of earth covering all our old faults and stumblings....
1112464183
CHAPTER I.
CIRCE.
"THERE she goes!" said Fayne, "on that light-built black. Jove! how she rides!"
All the men rushed to the window, as men will rush, to look at a feminine celebrity. Three of them there were— Brandon, Coyne, and Meynell. Fayne had a place in the window before. One man had not moved—that man was Carl Seymour; and belles were not his hobby, so he kept his seat and went on sketching.
"She," who was properly represented by Kate Davenant, passed by the Ocean House on a dashing trot, her groom following her; and when she was out of sight, the men came back to their seats again.
"I wonder if it's true?" said Brandon, half hesitatingly.
"If what is true?" asked Fayne.
"About— Well, they say she is such a dreadful flirt, you know. She don't look like it."
Carl Seymour shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't be so guileless, my dear fellow," he said. " Women never do ' look like it.' Innocence is their chief characteristic. Do you suppose Eve ' looked like it' when she gave Adam the apple ? No! If she had done, the masculine part of humanity, at least, would have been rusticating in the Garden of Eden to the present day."
" Have you ever met her?" asked Coyne, suddenly.
"Eve? No, not to my recollection."
"Miss Davenant, I mean?"
"No."
" Well," said Coyne, with an odd tone in his voice, "don't form any opinion until you have. You might be sorry afterward. Older men than you have risked their whole happiness upon that woman; wiser and as coolheaded men (I don't think there are many cooler-headed) would have given their lives for a smile from her lips." And he walked to the window with his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle softly. A little silence followed, one of those unaccountable silences which, sometimes, fall upon talkers with an odd sense of present discomfort or warning for the future.
Coyne was the oldest of the party, who were spending the summer at Newport. Kate Davenant had been the last arrival, and as she was a woman, and beautiful, she had been pretty liberally discussed. Perhaps the discussion had been all the more liberal, because Miss Davenant's fame had reached Newport before her. People, the stronger sex more especially, had a great deal to say about Miss Davenant. About her perfection of beauty, in the first place; about her wonderful magnetic fascination; about the tastefulness of her toilets; and last, but not least, about her aunt and chaperon, Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery. The latter lady was certainly all that society could desire as an indorsement. Rich, well-born, a leader of the ton in New York, her right to rule supreme was not to be disputed. But that did not account for Miss Davenant. Some bold inquirer had once ventured to ask about Kate, but had been decidedly snubbed, for Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery had merely placed her eyeglass in her aristocratic eye and stared her down, saying, "Kate is my adopted daughter," and front that day the irrepressible member had been "cut." So the matter rested, when Miss Davenant made her first appearance at Newport. Her costumes were superb pieces of art, her air was perfect, the witchery of her manner carried all before it. She might be the heiress of millions, even of billions, or she might be merely a dependent upon Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery—a poor relation—but to some people the uncertainty made the situation all the more piquant.
" George!" ejaculated young Spooney, who was an unsung hero on the lookout for a fortune, "it's like a lottery, jolly, but dangerous. Fellow puts down his money, and draws either a prize or a blank."
Now I will go back to the men who helped me to open my story.
Brandon, Fayne, and Meynell have gone to play billiards. Coyne and Seymour have stayed behind. The man with the clear eyes, straight features, and down-drooping blond moustache, is Carl Seymour: the dark-faced man who leans upon the window is Angus Coyne.
"I remember just such an evening as this spent by the sea-side, nine—no, ten years ago," said Seymour, and he broke off with a short, half-forced laugh.
Coyne looked up at him.
"What," he said, "have you a romance, too?"
Seymour laughed again.
"Yes. The oldest of all romances. A romance with a nine-year-old heroine."
"A romance, indeed," said Coyne. " But how did it become one?"
Seymour threw himself into an arm-chair, and looked out at the sea again with something of thought in his face.
"There are strange things in a man's life,” he said, musingly. "I often look back on mine, and wonder at the changing path that leads us all to the one ending—a mound of earth covering all our old faults and stumblings....
KATHLEEN, A LOVE STORY.
An excerpt from the beginning of:
CHAPTER I.
CIRCE.
"THERE she goes!" said Fayne, "on that light-built black. Jove! how she rides!"
All the men rushed to the window, as men will rush, to look at a feminine celebrity. Three of them there were— Brandon, Coyne, and Meynell. Fayne had a place in the window before. One man had not moved—that man was Carl Seymour; and belles were not his hobby, so he kept his seat and went on sketching.
"She," who was properly represented by Kate Davenant, passed by the Ocean House on a dashing trot, her groom following her; and when she was out of sight, the men came back to their seats again.
"I wonder if it's true?" said Brandon, half hesitatingly.
"If what is true?" asked Fayne.
"About— Well, they say she is such a dreadful flirt, you know. She don't look like it."
Carl Seymour shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't be so guileless, my dear fellow," he said. " Women never do ' look like it.' Innocence is their chief characteristic. Do you suppose Eve ' looked like it' when she gave Adam the apple ? No! If she had done, the masculine part of humanity, at least, would have been rusticating in the Garden of Eden to the present day."
" Have you ever met her?" asked Coyne, suddenly.
"Eve? No, not to my recollection."
"Miss Davenant, I mean?"
"No."
" Well," said Coyne, with an odd tone in his voice, "don't form any opinion until you have. You might be sorry afterward. Older men than you have risked their whole happiness upon that woman; wiser and as coolheaded men (I don't think there are many cooler-headed) would have given their lives for a smile from her lips." And he walked to the window with his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle softly. A little silence followed, one of those unaccountable silences which, sometimes, fall upon talkers with an odd sense of present discomfort or warning for the future.
Coyne was the oldest of the party, who were spending the summer at Newport. Kate Davenant had been the last arrival, and as she was a woman, and beautiful, she had been pretty liberally discussed. Perhaps the discussion had been all the more liberal, because Miss Davenant's fame had reached Newport before her. People, the stronger sex more especially, had a great deal to say about Miss Davenant. About her perfection of beauty, in the first place; about her wonderful magnetic fascination; about the tastefulness of her toilets; and last, but not least, about her aunt and chaperon, Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery. The latter lady was certainly all that society could desire as an indorsement. Rich, well-born, a leader of the ton in New York, her right to rule supreme was not to be disputed. But that did not account for Miss Davenant. Some bold inquirer had once ventured to ask about Kate, but had been decidedly snubbed, for Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery had merely placed her eyeglass in her aristocratic eye and stared her down, saying, "Kate is my adopted daughter," and front that day the irrepressible member had been "cut." So the matter rested, when Miss Davenant made her first appearance at Newport. Her costumes were superb pieces of art, her air was perfect, the witchery of her manner carried all before it. She might be the heiress of millions, even of billions, or she might be merely a dependent upon Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery—a poor relation—but to some people the uncertainty made the situation all the more piquant.
" George!" ejaculated young Spooney, who was an unsung hero on the lookout for a fortune, "it's like a lottery, jolly, but dangerous. Fellow puts down his money, and draws either a prize or a blank."
Now I will go back to the men who helped me to open my story.
Brandon, Fayne, and Meynell have gone to play billiards. Coyne and Seymour have stayed behind. The man with the clear eyes, straight features, and down-drooping blond moustache, is Carl Seymour: the dark-faced man who leans upon the window is Angus Coyne.
"I remember just such an evening as this spent by the sea-side, nine—no, ten years ago," said Seymour, and he broke off with a short, half-forced laugh.
Coyne looked up at him.
"What," he said, "have you a romance, too?"
Seymour laughed again.
"Yes. The oldest of all romances. A romance with a nine-year-old heroine."
"A romance, indeed," said Coyne. " But how did it become one?"
Seymour threw himself into an arm-chair, and looked out at the sea again with something of thought in his face.
"There are strange things in a man's life,” he said, musingly. "I often look back on mine, and wonder at the changing path that leads us all to the one ending—a mound of earth covering all our old faults and stumblings....
CHAPTER I.
CIRCE.
"THERE she goes!" said Fayne, "on that light-built black. Jove! how she rides!"
All the men rushed to the window, as men will rush, to look at a feminine celebrity. Three of them there were— Brandon, Coyne, and Meynell. Fayne had a place in the window before. One man had not moved—that man was Carl Seymour; and belles were not his hobby, so he kept his seat and went on sketching.
"She," who was properly represented by Kate Davenant, passed by the Ocean House on a dashing trot, her groom following her; and when she was out of sight, the men came back to their seats again.
"I wonder if it's true?" said Brandon, half hesitatingly.
"If what is true?" asked Fayne.
"About— Well, they say she is such a dreadful flirt, you know. She don't look like it."
Carl Seymour shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't be so guileless, my dear fellow," he said. " Women never do ' look like it.' Innocence is their chief characteristic. Do you suppose Eve ' looked like it' when she gave Adam the apple ? No! If she had done, the masculine part of humanity, at least, would have been rusticating in the Garden of Eden to the present day."
" Have you ever met her?" asked Coyne, suddenly.
"Eve? No, not to my recollection."
"Miss Davenant, I mean?"
"No."
" Well," said Coyne, with an odd tone in his voice, "don't form any opinion until you have. You might be sorry afterward. Older men than you have risked their whole happiness upon that woman; wiser and as coolheaded men (I don't think there are many cooler-headed) would have given their lives for a smile from her lips." And he walked to the window with his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle softly. A little silence followed, one of those unaccountable silences which, sometimes, fall upon talkers with an odd sense of present discomfort or warning for the future.
Coyne was the oldest of the party, who were spending the summer at Newport. Kate Davenant had been the last arrival, and as she was a woman, and beautiful, she had been pretty liberally discussed. Perhaps the discussion had been all the more liberal, because Miss Davenant's fame had reached Newport before her. People, the stronger sex more especially, had a great deal to say about Miss Davenant. About her perfection of beauty, in the first place; about her wonderful magnetic fascination; about the tastefulness of her toilets; and last, but not least, about her aunt and chaperon, Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery. The latter lady was certainly all that society could desire as an indorsement. Rich, well-born, a leader of the ton in New York, her right to rule supreme was not to be disputed. But that did not account for Miss Davenant. Some bold inquirer had once ventured to ask about Kate, but had been decidedly snubbed, for Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery had merely placed her eyeglass in her aristocratic eye and stared her down, saying, "Kate is my adopted daughter," and front that day the irrepressible member had been "cut." So the matter rested, when Miss Davenant made her first appearance at Newport. Her costumes were superb pieces of art, her air was perfect, the witchery of her manner carried all before it. She might be the heiress of millions, even of billions, or she might be merely a dependent upon Mrs. Mortimer Montgomery—a poor relation—but to some people the uncertainty made the situation all the more piquant.
" George!" ejaculated young Spooney, who was an unsung hero on the lookout for a fortune, "it's like a lottery, jolly, but dangerous. Fellow puts down his money, and draws either a prize or a blank."
Now I will go back to the men who helped me to open my story.
Brandon, Fayne, and Meynell have gone to play billiards. Coyne and Seymour have stayed behind. The man with the clear eyes, straight features, and down-drooping blond moustache, is Carl Seymour: the dark-faced man who leans upon the window is Angus Coyne.
"I remember just such an evening as this spent by the sea-side, nine—no, ten years ago," said Seymour, and he broke off with a short, half-forced laugh.
Coyne looked up at him.
"What," he said, "have you a romance, too?"
Seymour laughed again.
"Yes. The oldest of all romances. A romance with a nine-year-old heroine."
"A romance, indeed," said Coyne. " But how did it become one?"
Seymour threw himself into an arm-chair, and looked out at the sea again with something of thought in his face.
"There are strange things in a man's life,” he said, musingly. "I often look back on mine, and wonder at the changing path that leads us all to the one ending—a mound of earth covering all our old faults and stumblings....
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KATHLEEN, A LOVE STORY.
KATHLEEN, A LOVE STORY.
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940014863360 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | OGB |
| Publication date: | 08/11/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 220 KB |
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