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Wharton, Edith, 1862-1937

"The Custom of the Country"

Fairford called after him: "Come and have your tea first."
"No, no--tea afterward, thanks. Are they all upstairs with my
grandfather? I must make my peace with Undine--" His sister put her arm
through his, and drew him back to the fire.
"Undine didn't come."
"Didn't come? Who brought the boy, then?"
"He didn't come either. That's why the cake's not cut."
Ralph frowned. "What's the mystery? Is he ill, or what's happened?"
"Nothing's happened--Paul's all right. Apparently Undine forgot. She
never went home for him, and the nurse waited till it was too late to
come."
She saw his eyes darken; but he merely gave a slight laugh and drew out
his cigarette case. "Poor little Paul--poor chap!" He moved toward the
fire. "Yes, please--some tea."
He dropped back into his chair with a look of weariness, as if some
strong stimulant had suddenly ceased to take effect on him; but before
the tea-table was brought back he had glanced at his watch and was on
his feet again.
"But this won't do. I must rush home and see the poor chap before
dinner. And my mother--and my grandfather? I want to say a word to
them--I must make Paul's excuses!"
"Grandfather's taking his nap. And mother had to rush out for a
postponed committee meeting--she left as soon as we heard Paul wasn't
coming."
"Ah, I see." He sat down again. "Yes, make the strong, please. I've had
a beastly fagging sort of day."
He leaned back with half-closed eyes, his untouched cup in his hand.


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