I'll take him in hand
tomorrow
and
make much of him.
make much of him.
Kipling - Poems
"
"So will every man who has any sorrow of his own," said Dick, slapping
his thigh. "He shall see his trouble there, and, by the Lord Harry, just
when he's feeling properly sorry for himself he shall throw back his
head and laugh,--as she is laughing. I've put the life of my heart and
the light of my eyes into her, and I don't care what comes. . . . I'm
tired,--awfully tired. I think I'll get to sleep. Take away the whiskey,
it has served its turn, and give Bessie thirty-six quid, and three over
for luck. Cover the picture. "
He dropped asleep in the long chair, hid face white and haggard, almost
before he had finished the sentence. Bessie tried to take Torpenhow's
hand. "Aren't you never going to speak to me any more? " she said; but
Torpenhow was looking at Dick.
"What a stock of vanity the man has!
I'll take him in hand tomorrow and
make much of him. He deserves it. --Eh! what was that, Bess? "
"Nothing. I'll put things tidy here a little, and then I'll go. You
couldn't give Me that three months' pay now, could you? He said you
were to. "
Torpenhow gave her a check and went to his own rooms. Bessie faithfully
tidied up the studio, set the door ajar for flight, emptied half a
bottle of turpentine on a duster, and began to scrub the face of the
Melancolia viciously. The paint did not smudge quickly enough. She took
a palette-knife and scraped, following each stroke with the wet duster.
In five minutes the picture was a formless, scarred muddle of colours.
She threw the paint-stained duster into the studio stove, stuck out her
tongue at the sleeper, and whispered, "Bilked! " as she turned to run
down the staircase. She would never see Torpenhow any more, but she had
at least done harm to the man who had come between her and her desire
and who used to make fun of her.
"So will every man who has any sorrow of his own," said Dick, slapping
his thigh. "He shall see his trouble there, and, by the Lord Harry, just
when he's feeling properly sorry for himself he shall throw back his
head and laugh,--as she is laughing. I've put the life of my heart and
the light of my eyes into her, and I don't care what comes. . . . I'm
tired,--awfully tired. I think I'll get to sleep. Take away the whiskey,
it has served its turn, and give Bessie thirty-six quid, and three over
for luck. Cover the picture. "
He dropped asleep in the long chair, hid face white and haggard, almost
before he had finished the sentence. Bessie tried to take Torpenhow's
hand. "Aren't you never going to speak to me any more? " she said; but
Torpenhow was looking at Dick.
"What a stock of vanity the man has!
I'll take him in hand tomorrow and
make much of him. He deserves it. --Eh! what was that, Bess? "
"Nothing. I'll put things tidy here a little, and then I'll go. You
couldn't give Me that three months' pay now, could you? He said you
were to. "
Torpenhow gave her a check and went to his own rooms. Bessie faithfully
tidied up the studio, set the door ajar for flight, emptied half a
bottle of turpentine on a duster, and began to scrub the face of the
Melancolia viciously. The paint did not smudge quickly enough. She took
a palette-knife and scraped, following each stroke with the wet duster.
In five minutes the picture was a formless, scarred muddle of colours.
She threw the paint-stained duster into the studio stove, stuck out her
tongue at the sleeper, and whispered, "Bilked! " as she turned to run
down the staircase. She would never see Torpenhow any more, but she had
at least done harm to the man who had come between her and her desire
and who used to make fun of her.
