For the rest, John Sherman was
forgetting
the town of Ballah.
Yeats
We
Shermans begin that way and give up frivolity as we grow old. We are
all the same in the end. '
* * * * *
Mrs. Sherman and her son had but a small round of acquaintances--a few
rich people, clients of the house of Sherman and Saunders for the most
part. Among these was a Miss Margaret Leland who lived with her mother,
the widow of the late Henry Leland, ship-broker, on the eastern side
of St. Peter's Square. Their house was larger than the Shermans', and
noticeable among its fellows by the newly-painted hall-door. Within
on every side were bronzes and china vases and heavy curtains. In all
were displayed the curious and vagrant taste of Margaret Leland: the
rich Italian and mediaeval draperies of pre-Raphaelite taste jostling
the brightest and vulgarest products of more native and Saxon
schools; vases of the most artistic shape and colour side by side
with artificial flowers and stuffed birds. This house belonged to the
Lelands. They had bought it in less prosperous days, and having altered
it according to their taste and the need of their growing welfare could
not decide to leave it.
Sherman was an occasional caller at the Lelands, and had certainly a
liking, though not a very deep one, for Margaret. As yet he knew little
more about her than that she wore the most fascinating hats, that the
late Lord Lytton was her favourite author, and that she hated frogs. It
is clear that she did not know that a French writer on magic says the
luxurious and extravagant hate frogs because they are cold, solitary,
and dreary. Had she done so, she would have been more cautious about
revealing her tastes.
For the rest, John Sherman was forgetting the town of Ballah. He
corresponded indeed with Mary Carton, but his laborious letter-writing
made his letters fewer and fewer. Sometimes, too, he heard from Howard,
who had a curacy at Glasgow and was on indifferent terms with his
parishioners. They objected to his way of conducting the services.
His letters were full of it. He would not give in, he said, whatever
happened. His conscience was involved.
II
One afternoon Mrs. Leland called on Mrs. Sherman. She very often
called--this fat, sentimental woman, moving in the midst of a cloud
of scent. The day was warm, and she carried her too elaborate and
heavy dress as a large caddis-fly drags its case with much labour and
patience. She sat down on the sofa with obvious relief, leaning so
heavily among the cushions that a clothes-moth fluttered out of an
antimacassar, to be knocked down and crushed by Mrs. Sherman, who was
very quick in her movements.
As soon as she found her breath, Mrs. Leland began a long history of
her sorrows.
Shermans begin that way and give up frivolity as we grow old. We are
all the same in the end. '
* * * * *
Mrs. Sherman and her son had but a small round of acquaintances--a few
rich people, clients of the house of Sherman and Saunders for the most
part. Among these was a Miss Margaret Leland who lived with her mother,
the widow of the late Henry Leland, ship-broker, on the eastern side
of St. Peter's Square. Their house was larger than the Shermans', and
noticeable among its fellows by the newly-painted hall-door. Within
on every side were bronzes and china vases and heavy curtains. In all
were displayed the curious and vagrant taste of Margaret Leland: the
rich Italian and mediaeval draperies of pre-Raphaelite taste jostling
the brightest and vulgarest products of more native and Saxon
schools; vases of the most artistic shape and colour side by side
with artificial flowers and stuffed birds. This house belonged to the
Lelands. They had bought it in less prosperous days, and having altered
it according to their taste and the need of their growing welfare could
not decide to leave it.
Sherman was an occasional caller at the Lelands, and had certainly a
liking, though not a very deep one, for Margaret. As yet he knew little
more about her than that she wore the most fascinating hats, that the
late Lord Lytton was her favourite author, and that she hated frogs. It
is clear that she did not know that a French writer on magic says the
luxurious and extravagant hate frogs because they are cold, solitary,
and dreary. Had she done so, she would have been more cautious about
revealing her tastes.
For the rest, John Sherman was forgetting the town of Ballah. He
corresponded indeed with Mary Carton, but his laborious letter-writing
made his letters fewer and fewer. Sometimes, too, he heard from Howard,
who had a curacy at Glasgow and was on indifferent terms with his
parishioners. They objected to his way of conducting the services.
His letters were full of it. He would not give in, he said, whatever
happened. His conscience was involved.
II
One afternoon Mrs. Leland called on Mrs. Sherman. She very often
called--this fat, sentimental woman, moving in the midst of a cloud
of scent. The day was warm, and she carried her too elaborate and
heavy dress as a large caddis-fly drags its case with much labour and
patience. She sat down on the sofa with obvious relief, leaning so
heavily among the cushions that a clothes-moth fluttered out of an
antimacassar, to be knocked down and crushed by Mrs. Sherman, who was
very quick in her movements.
As soon as she found her breath, Mrs. Leland began a long history of
her sorrows.
