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  • led, and capricious. But● if she spoke just once—if she said any three● indifferent words at random—the■ veriest sceptic wa

    hat made you
  • s undone for e■ver. Because Fair had a Voice.111 Not th●e coloratura kind—perhaps Patti ■could do more justice to Caro Nome?/p> r hear●t co

  • 猙ut a■ voice which Galli-Curci and the nightingale● and the running brook and church bell●s and Sarah Bernhardt might w●ell

    ntract, when

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envy. She could sing a little—●small, candle-lit songs about love, and ■absurdly stirring things that had marc●hed down through the centuries, and h■aunting bits of lullabies—she had a trick o●f chanting them under her breat●h, as though it were to herself■ that she was singing. But when she spoke—ah●, then any coloratura that ever lived m●ight well shed tears of bitt●er envy. For the voice that Fair Carter used f■or such homel

y purposes as wishing lucky morta■ls good day and good night and God-speed was com■pact of magic. It was wine and ve■lvet and moonlight and laughter and my●stery—and for all its enchantment, it was ●as clear and honest as a nice little boy’●s. It did remarkable things to■ the English language. Fair would have widen●ed her eyes in cool disdain at the idea ●of indulging in such far-advertised South■ern tricks as “you all” and  癜

Ah raickon” and “honey lamb,” but she ●managed to linger over vowels■ and elude consonants in a way that did not● even remotely suggest the frozen ●North. It reduced English to such a satisfactor●y state of submission that she only experimen■ted half heartedly with a

eager and ■reckless and adventurous. It h?/div>

ny other language. A Ch■inaman would112 have understood her wh●en she said “Please”—a Polynesi■an would have thrilled responsive t■o her “Thank you.” Therefo■re she had gone serenely on her way duri●ng those two terrible and th■rilling years in France, those ■

er from Richmond110 say: “■Fair always loo

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three terrible and bitter ye●ars in Germany, ignoring entirely the fact tha■t the Teutons had a language of their o■wn, and acquiring just enough of the Gallic ●tongue to enable her to indulge in t●he gay and hybrid banter of her beloved dou●ghboys—a swift patter con

wrung tribu■te from her father, who had bee


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at once virile and ●graceful, as old as the Chans●on de Roland, as new as Sacha Guitr■y’s latest comedy. But after several ■courteous and tense attempts to exchange am■enities with Laure’s “Little American” th●ey had abandoned the tongue of their f●athers and devoted their earnest att●ention113 to mastering the English languag■e. It was easy enough for Philippe and ●Laure, of course; they already knew● a great deal more about English literature ●than Fair had dreamed existed, thou●gh they tripped over the spoken word, but■ the other members of the fa

mily l■aboured sternly and industriou■sly, while their small guest sur■veyed their efforts with indulgent ■amusement. It seemed quite natural■ and reasonable to Fairfax Ca●rter they they should continue to do so i●ndefinitely—they wanted to talk to her, did●n’t they? Well, then! They were getting ●on quite well, too, she reflected benevolen■tly, still smiling at St. Mar●k, who stared back at her so ■unresponsively that she suddenly ceased● to smile. “I suppose you don’t unde●rstand English, either?” she d●emanded severely. “’Bout time■ a little

old thing like you started to lear●n it, I should think!” Her eye wandered to t■he travelling clock ticking ●competently away on the desk, and res●ted there for an electrified second. ■“Mercy!” she murmured, appalled, an■d was out of the bed and across the room with■ all the swift grace of a kitten. Half-p●ast nine, and the De Chartreuil boys were to r■ide over for a game of “croquo-golf” at te■n! Her toes curled rebelliously■ at the contact of the cold flags, bu■t she114 ignored them stoically, pouncing on t■he copper jug and whirling across th■

e room like a small, bright tem■pest. What a divine day, chanted her heart●, suddenly exultant, as she spla●shed the water recklessly and t■umbled into her clothes. It was wonderful to fe■el almost well again—to feel wearin■ess slipping from her like a worn-out garment●. The sun came flooding in through the de●ep windows, gilding the faded hangings 癃gilding the vivid head—she could■ hear horses’ hoofs beneath her window, ■and she flung it wide, leaning far out. “Bonj●our, Monsieur Raoul—bonjour■, Monsieur André! Oh, Laure, ■are you down already??/p>

? “A●lready? This hour, small lazy ●one! Quick now, or we leave thee!●” “No, no,” wailed Fair. “I■’ll be there—I’m almost there now■, truly. Save the red mallet for me, angel dar●ling—it’s the only one I can hit with. Do●n’t let her go, Monsieur And■ré!” “Never and never, Mademoiselle. ●We are your slaves.” She knotted her● shoe-laces with frantic fingers, snatched ●up the brown tam from the table, and raced do●wn the corridor between the swaying tapestrie●s like a small wild thing. But half way down■ she halted abruptly. Behind one ●

of the great doors someone was singi●ng, gay and ringing115 and reckless, a ●gallant thing, that set her heart f●lying. “Monsieur Charette à ■dit a ces Messieurs Monsieur Charette à dit— 霆” Philippe le Gai was singing the o●ld Vendée marching song tha●t he had translated for her the day befor●e. For a moment she wavered ●and then, thrusting her hands deep in her p■ockets, she took a long breath. “Morning, Monsi●eur Philippe!” she challenged clearly. ■The song broke off, and Fair ●could see him, for all the clos■ed doors—could see his shini

ng black hea●d and the dark young face with its reckless●ly friendly smile, and its curiously un■friendly eyes, gray and quiet. She could ■see—— The blithe voice rang out ag■ain. “And a most good morning to Mi■stress Fairy Carter! Where is s■he going, with those quick feet?”● “She’s going to play croq●uo-golf with Laure and Diane and the ■De Chartreuils. It’s such a hea■venly beautiful day. You—you aren’t c■oming?” “But never of this lif■e!” laughed the voice. “How old you think we ●in here are, hein? Seven? Eight? We have ●twenty-nine y

ears and thirty-nine gr■ay hairs—we don’t play with foolish ch■ildren.116 Only fairies can d●o that! You be careful of the ball going b■y old Daudin’s farm, see; there’s a sacred t■raitor of a ditch just over the hill—hit him ●hard and good, that ball, and maybe you clear ■it. Maybe you don’t, too! It■ is one animal of a ditch!” The light, str■ong laughter swept through the door, and Fair● swayed to it as though it were a hand that ■pulled her. Then she turned a■way with a brave lift to her he●ad. “Thanks a lot—I’ll be careful.● See you this a

fternoon, then.” ■ But the light feet finished■ their journey down the gray corridor ●and the worn flight of stone steps in an ominous●ly sedate fashion. No, it was no use; it was no ●use at all. She felt suddenly discouraged and b●affled, she who a few minutes before had been a ■candle, brave and warm and shining—only ●to have a careless breath blow ou■t the light, leaving nothing but a cold● little white stick with a dea●d black wick for a heart. It was horribly unfa■ir, and someone should most cert●ainly pay for it; someone who was sitting ■blithe a

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had heard far off a bugle■ sing. Oh, how dared he, how dar■ed he be indifferent? He, who idled all his life● away, paying no tribute to the●117 world save laughter, a use

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less, bl●ack-haired, arrogant young good-f●or-nothing? How dared he be indiffere■nt to beauty and riches and grace and wit ■and kindness, when they lingered at■ his side


sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.


, tremulous and expectant? It ■was worse than cruel to be indifferent to the● pe

rsonification of all

these attribu●te

s—it was crass, intolerable stupidity. Sh■e made a sud

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