III
The Humorist
E were spending our summer holiday at Marybeach, Drusilla and I and our son. We had been there a week. It was a glorious, golden day, almost without shadows. Matthew Arnold was for the moment quiet, and I closed my eyes. The voice of a pierrot, sweetened by distance, fitted in with my mood, but presently soft little steps in the sand aroused me, and I opened my eyes upon Drusilla, standing in a golden haze against the September blue.
"Look at this, Martin! Oh, do look at this!"
I took the telegram and read it:
Please come to me at once with or without Martin.
Georgie.
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