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Hichens, Robert Smythe, 1864-1950

"The Woman with the Fan"

Men never know, and that
is why they find her adorable.
Sir Donald said nothing for a moment, only made the familiar movement
with his hands that was a sign in him of concealed excitement or emotion.
His eyes were fixed upon the ledge of the box. Lady Holme was puzzled by
his silence and, at last, was on the point of making a remark on some
other subject--Plancon's singing--when he spoke, like a man who had made
up his mind firmly to take an unusual, perhaps a difficult course.
"I wish to take it from you," he said. "Give me the right one, not an
imitation of an imitation."
She knew at once what he meant and was surprised. Had Leo Ulford been
talking?
"Lady Holme," he went on, "I am taking a liberty. I know that. It's a
thing I have never done before, knowingly. Don't think me unconscious of
what I am doing. But I am an old man, and old men can sometimes
venture--allowance is sometimes made for them. I want to claim that
allowance now for what I am going to say."
"Well?" she said, neither hardly nor gently.
In truth she scarcely knew whether she wished him to speak or not.
"My son is--Leo is not a safe friend for you at this moment."
Again the dull, brick-red flush rose in his cheeks. There was an odd,
flattened look just above his cheekbones near his eyes, and the eyes
themselves had a strange expression as of determination and guilt
mingled.
"Your son?" Lady Holme said.


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