He just can't bear the sight
of her."
"Naturally enough," I observed, though there had been an undercurrent
to his speech that I thought almost quite a little odd. His accents
were queerly placed. Had I not known him too well I should have
thought him trying to be deep. I recalled his other phrases, that Mrs.
Effie was seeing which way a cat would leap, and that the Klondike
person would hand the ladies of the North Side set a lemon squash. I
put them all down as childish prattle and said as much to the Mixer
later in the day as she had a dish of tea at the Grill.
"Yes, Sour-dough's right," she observed. "That Earl just hates the
sight of her--can't bear to look at her a minute." But she, too,
intoned the thing queerly.
"He's putting pressure to bear on her," I said.
"Pressure!" said the Mixer; and then, "Hum!" very dryly.
With this news, however, it was plain as a pillar-box that things were
going badly with his lordship's effort to release the Honourable
George from his entanglement. The woman, doubtless with his
compromising letters, would be holding out for a stiffish price; she
would think them worth no end. And plainly again, his lordship had
thrown off his mask; was unable longer to conceal his aversion for
her. This, to be sure, was more in accordance with his character as I
had long observed it.
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