E. Nesbit

“ She had often wondered how Forrester passed his spare time. Now she knew.
You may be as distracted as you choose because your lover has failed to keep his appointment. But business is business, and Sylvia’s business was to insist on the public’s minding its own. Of course she could get into her house in the Steinhart disguise that served her quite efficiently in her London excursions—but it was not easy to assume that disguise in the theatre. ”

“ You know the infinite desolating variations that can be played on the simple theme, “What can have happened to him?”—Sandra went through them all da capo, and then all through them again, as she bathed and dressed.
There was a letter, the letter written by Templar after the chain had been riveted on him by his Aunt at Waterloo. It had been meant to reach her on Sunday morning. You cannot expect a man who has been out of England for eight years to remember all about country posts. It was a very delightful letter, and told her that though he might be late he would certainly come. ”

“ In a quarter of an hour Sandra opened Miss Steinhart’s door to the falcon-faced driver of the taxi-cab.
“Come in,” she said. “You’ll understand—the whole thing is like something in a book.”
“New Arabian Nights,” he said, “only the other way round. Will you allow me to say that I am very grateful for the chance you are kind enough to give me, and that I consider myself very fortunate in being permitted to take part in a secret? There are so few nowadays,” he added plaintively, “what with the newspapers and advertisements and wireless telegraphy.” ”

“ She would go out and telegraph to Denny to bring up the letter if there was one. Of course there would be one.
Even the genius of a Mosenthal cannot keep a young woman hidden in London, without allowing her to shop. The fertile, childlike imagination that had secured his success in business of all sorts, had found it simple to arrange a way. Sandra must have a disguise. ”

“ He had supported Sylvia.
“Ah! young girls! they love to be alone—it is natural—to dream, to regret the pasts they have not had, to taste the beautiful sadness of the young-time, and to be very sorry for themselves. And nowhere can she so safely alone be, as here—with Uncle Moses in his houses all around her. ”

“ On Sunday morning she went about the garden cutting armfuls of flowers—stocks and dahlias, little red fuchsias from the tall bushes by the door, Japanese anemones, tea roses, and tight handfuls of sweet peas. She must make the house beautiful, for him. Denny was in one of his states and could not help her. ”

“ It is a good thing to get into the way of ordering people about on all occasions and refusing explanations. It makes them easy to deal with and prevents their asking “Why?” when why is awkward or tiresome.
In the train a new theme mingled with the other. Would there be a letter waiting for her at the house without an address. Or would perhaps he himself. . . ? He knew that Forrester came at eight. It would be easy to leave a letter. Or to get Forrester to let him in. No, of course, Forrester wouldn’t do that. ”

“ I’ll let you go out that way, and you’ll see how the motor works.”
“The rest of the family,” said the new chauffeur—“do I have to call for them anywhere?”
“They come home with me usually,” she said, “but to-day they’re away—except Mr. Denis.—No,” she said on a sudden impulse, “Mr. Denis will not be here to-night. You will just have to fetch me.”
“Can you trust your servants?” he asked abruptly.
“We haven’t any—only an old deaf and dumb woman who comes in the mornings. ”

“ Solitude was to her, as to most persons of genius, at times a necessity. The first time she insisted on being left alone in that strange house, Aunt Dusa’s sense of propriety had driven her to an appeal to Mr. ”