DOI article:
Harland, Henry: Flower o' the Clove
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25498#0070
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Flower o' the Clove
a hat that was a tangle of geraniums, an embroidered jacket, white
gloves, a skirt that frou-froued breezily as she moved ; and she
carried an amazing silver-hiked sunshade, a thing like a folded
gonfalon, a thing of red silk gleaming through draperies of black
lace.
Poising lightly near the threshold, with a bright little smile of
interrogation, this bewildering vision said, “ Have I the honour
of addressing Mr. William Stretton ? ”
The young man bowed a vague plea of guilty to that name ;
but his gaze, through the lenses of his pince-nez, was all per-
plexity and question.
“I’m very fortunate in finding you at home. I’ve called to
see you about a matter of business,” she informed him.
“ Oh ? ” he wondered. Then he added, with a pathetic shake
of the head, “ I’m the last man in the world whom any one could
wisely choose to see about a matter of business; but such as I am,
I’m all at your disposal.”
“ So much the better,” she rejoined cheerily. “ I infinitely
prefer to transact business with people who are unbusinesslike.
One has some chance of over-reaching them.”
“ You’ll have every chance of over-reaching me,” sighed he.
“ What a jolly quarter of the town you live in,” she com-
mented. “ It’s so picturesque and Gothic and dilapidated,
with such an atmosphere of academic calm. It reminds me
of Oxford.”
“Yes,” assented he, “it is a bit like Oxford. Was your busi-
ness connected-? ”
“ Oh, it is like Oxford ? ” she interrupted. “ Then never tell
me again that there’s nothing in intuitions. I’ve never been in
Oxford, but directly I passed the gateway of Dean’s Yard, I felt
reminded of it.”
“ There’s
Flower o' the Clove
a hat that was a tangle of geraniums, an embroidered jacket, white
gloves, a skirt that frou-froued breezily as she moved ; and she
carried an amazing silver-hiked sunshade, a thing like a folded
gonfalon, a thing of red silk gleaming through draperies of black
lace.
Poising lightly near the threshold, with a bright little smile of
interrogation, this bewildering vision said, “ Have I the honour
of addressing Mr. William Stretton ? ”
The young man bowed a vague plea of guilty to that name ;
but his gaze, through the lenses of his pince-nez, was all per-
plexity and question.
“I’m very fortunate in finding you at home. I’ve called to
see you about a matter of business,” she informed him.
“ Oh ? ” he wondered. Then he added, with a pathetic shake
of the head, “ I’m the last man in the world whom any one could
wisely choose to see about a matter of business; but such as I am,
I’m all at your disposal.”
“ So much the better,” she rejoined cheerily. “ I infinitely
prefer to transact business with people who are unbusinesslike.
One has some chance of over-reaching them.”
“ You’ll have every chance of over-reaching me,” sighed he.
“ What a jolly quarter of the town you live in,” she com-
mented. “ It’s so picturesque and Gothic and dilapidated,
with such an atmosphere of academic calm. It reminds me
of Oxford.”
“Yes,” assented he, “it is a bit like Oxford. Was your busi-
ness connected-? ”
“ Oh, it is like Oxford ? ” she interrupted. “ Then never tell
me again that there’s nothing in intuitions. I’ve never been in
Oxford, but directly I passed the gateway of Dean’s Yard, I felt
reminded of it.”
“ There’s