DOI Artikel:
Harland, Henry: Merely Players
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25499#0025
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By Henry Harland
“ Heavens, what weather ! ” he exclaimed fervently. “ The day
is made of perfumed velvet. The air is a love-philtre. The
whole world sings romance. And yet you—insensible monster !
—you can sit there torpidly-” But abruptly he fell silent.
His attention had been caught by something below, in the
garden. He watched it for an instant from his place by the
window ; then he stepped forth upon the balcony, still watching.
Suddenly, facing half-way round, “By my bauble, Nunky,” he
called to his companion, and his voice was tense with surprised
exultancy, “ she’s got red hair ! ”
The younger man looked up with vague eyes. “Who ?
What ? ” he asked languidly.
“ Come here, come here,” his friend urged, beckoning him.
“There,” he indicated, when the pale man had joined him,
“ below there—to the right—picking roses. She’s got red hair.
She’s sent by Providence.”
A woman in a white frock was picking roses, in one of the
alleys of the garden ; rather a tall woman. Her back was turned
towards her observers ; but she wore only a light scarf of lace over
her head, and her hair—soft-brown, fawn-colour, in its shadows—
where the sun touched it, showed a soul of red.
The younger man frowned, and asked sharply, “Who the devil
is she ? ”
“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied the other. “ One of the
Queen’s women, probably. But whoever she is, she’s got red
hair.”
The younger man frowned more fiercely still. “ What is she
doing in the King’s private garden ? This is a pretty state of
things.” He stamped his foot angrily. “ Go down and turn her
out. And I wish measures to be taken, that such trespassing may
not occur again.”
But
By Henry Harland
“ Heavens, what weather ! ” he exclaimed fervently. “ The day
is made of perfumed velvet. The air is a love-philtre. The
whole world sings romance. And yet you—insensible monster !
—you can sit there torpidly-” But abruptly he fell silent.
His attention had been caught by something below, in the
garden. He watched it for an instant from his place by the
window ; then he stepped forth upon the balcony, still watching.
Suddenly, facing half-way round, “By my bauble, Nunky,” he
called to his companion, and his voice was tense with surprised
exultancy, “ she’s got red hair ! ”
The younger man looked up with vague eyes. “Who ?
What ? ” he asked languidly.
“ Come here, come here,” his friend urged, beckoning him.
“There,” he indicated, when the pale man had joined him,
“ below there—to the right—picking roses. She’s got red hair.
She’s sent by Providence.”
A woman in a white frock was picking roses, in one of the
alleys of the garden ; rather a tall woman. Her back was turned
towards her observers ; but she wore only a light scarf of lace over
her head, and her hair—soft-brown, fawn-colour, in its shadows—
where the sun touched it, showed a soul of red.
The younger man frowned, and asked sharply, “Who the devil
is she ? ”
“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied the other. “ One of the
Queen’s women, probably. But whoever she is, she’s got red
hair.”
The younger man frowned more fiercely still. “ What is she
doing in the King’s private garden ? This is a pretty state of
things.” He stamped his foot angrily. “ Go down and turn her
out. And I wish measures to be taken, that such trespassing may
not occur again.”
But