The Rustle of Silk

I The man had followed her from Marble Arch,--not a mackerel-eyed old man, sensual and without respect, but one who responded to emotions as an artist and was still young and stil...

I Mrs. Malwood was hipped. She had been losing heavily at bridge, her Pomeranian had been run over in Berkeley Square and taken to the dog's hospital, her most recent flame had ju...

I Sir Peter Chalfont's cork arm had become one of the institutions of the town. Long ago the grimness had gone out of everybody's laughter at the tricks he played with it,--presen...

I For a Marquis he was disconcertingly hairy. So much so that even those fast diminishing people who still force themselves to believe that a title necessarily places men on a hig...

I Fallaray had been lunching with George Lytham at his rooms in the Albany. There had been half a dozen of the men who backed _Reconstruction_ to meet him. From one o'clock until ...

I To Ellingham's entire satisfaction, Feo did not sit out the performance at the Adelphi. She left in the middle of the second act. It was not a piece demanding any sort of concen...

I Fallaray was to meet Lola at the gate in the wall at four o'clock. He wanted to show her how the vale looked in the light of the afternoon sun. But it was a long time to wait be...

I There was a hooligan knock on Georgie Malwood's bedroom door. Saying "Aubrey" to herself without any sign either of irritation or petulance, she put down her book, gathered her...