DOI article:
Syrett, Netta: Far above rubies
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25498#0258
Far Above Rubies
254
shoulders, and a restless movement of her head now and again,
spoke eloquently of hopeless, unmitigated boredom.
The room in which she sat, though small—Barbara Gilman
hated big rooms—was furnished luxuriously. The folds of the
heavy curtains over doors and windows gleamed in the firelight,
which flashed also on the silver toys with which the many
small tables were loaded, on the shining cushions tossed on the
floor, and on the fragile china and glass of the tea-table.
Mrs. Gilman glanced at the linen-covered tray on which the
tea-cups stood, and at the almost empty cake basket, and smiled
again.
“ He was a very unsophisticated boy—and awfully amusing when
he talked with so grave an air about Dawson’s tiresome illness—
just as though it wasn’t sufficiently annoying to have one’s maid
ill, with the hunt ball coming on and not a rag to wear, without
discussing her stupid symptoms by the hour ! However,” Mrs.
Gilman shrugged her shoulders with a sensation of lazy satis-
faction, “ we drifted pretty far from Dawson’s cough before tea
was over.”
“ I really didn’t know such men existed in this age,” she told
herself, her thoughts wandering languidly. “ John-Bullism I
know, and decadence (in the happy day in town), but what is
this ? It’s the sort of thing one used to read about in stories
that were not oblivious of the young person. High ideals, youth-
ful enthusiasms, innocence—or is it ignorance—of evil ? They
are all such exhausting things in their way, but how curious to find
them combined in one individual—and that a man. Really one
might almost derive a new sensation from the study of such a
being. And a new sensation here, of all places in the world !
No, it’s certainly not to be despised.”
She moved a little to shield her face from the fire, and then
turned
254
shoulders, and a restless movement of her head now and again,
spoke eloquently of hopeless, unmitigated boredom.
The room in which she sat, though small—Barbara Gilman
hated big rooms—was furnished luxuriously. The folds of the
heavy curtains over doors and windows gleamed in the firelight,
which flashed also on the silver toys with which the many
small tables were loaded, on the shining cushions tossed on the
floor, and on the fragile china and glass of the tea-table.
Mrs. Gilman glanced at the linen-covered tray on which the
tea-cups stood, and at the almost empty cake basket, and smiled
again.
“ He was a very unsophisticated boy—and awfully amusing when
he talked with so grave an air about Dawson’s tiresome illness—
just as though it wasn’t sufficiently annoying to have one’s maid
ill, with the hunt ball coming on and not a rag to wear, without
discussing her stupid symptoms by the hour ! However,” Mrs.
Gilman shrugged her shoulders with a sensation of lazy satis-
faction, “ we drifted pretty far from Dawson’s cough before tea
was over.”
“ I really didn’t know such men existed in this age,” she told
herself, her thoughts wandering languidly. “ John-Bullism I
know, and decadence (in the happy day in town), but what is
this ? It’s the sort of thing one used to read about in stories
that were not oblivious of the young person. High ideals, youth-
ful enthusiasms, innocence—or is it ignorance—of evil ? They
are all such exhausting things in their way, but how curious to find
them combined in one individual—and that a man. Really one
might almost derive a new sensation from the study of such a
being. And a new sensation here, of all places in the world !
No, it’s certainly not to be despised.”
She moved a little to shield her face from the fire, and then
turned