Dornford Yates

Dornford Yates

Summary

Portrait of Dornford Yates Dornford Yates The Brother of Daphne

At nights shaken with the flare of torches and the clash of arms, at oaths and laughter and the tinkle of spurs on the worn steps, at threats and bloodlettings and all the good old ways, now dead, out of date, and less indebted to memory than imagination. And then at galleries with creaking floors, at arras and the rustle of a dress; whisperings, too, and the proud flash of eyes, hands lily-white, whose fingers men must kiss and in the eyes mirror themselves. But these things are not dead. Old-fashioned wrath is over—gone to its long home: love is not even wrinkled.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Dornford Yates Dornford Yates The Brother of Daphne

Silvia was leaning over the balcony, one hand to her white throat. I could hear her quick-coming breath.
"No," I said slowly, "I'm not. But until you tell me that you know I did not mean what I said, I will not believe that you did not mean to stand upon my fingers."
"Are you hurt, lad?"
"No. Did you hear what I said?"
Silvia stood up, her hands before her on the coping.
"You know I didn't."
Without a word I stepped carefully out of the car. The pain was intense. It was as if my side was being seared with a hot iron. How I started the car I shall never know.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Dornford Yates Dornford Yates The Brother of Daphne

It was at this interesting juncture that the door opened and a footman stood in the August afternoon sunshine, touching his cap and staring fixedly down the platform. On a station lamp was 'Whinnerley Bluff'.
How we got out of the train and into the car, neither of us ever knew. When I recovered my senses, she was sitting as far away as possible in an open landaulette, staring at my dressing-case and her bag, and moaning.
"Whatever must they think? Whatever must they think?"
"They can't think we've been married long," said I musingly. "They only do that sort of thing on the honeymoon."
Source: Gutenberg

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