Love,—and the Philosopher: A Study in Sentiment

Winter closed in with a drizzling damp atmosphere far more trying to both body and mind than frost and snow, and though the country in November is seldom exhilarating except to...

Up to the present moment it has seemed hardly necessary to mention the name of the Sentimentalist. She was so distinctly a Sentimentalist that the appellation bestowed upon her...

On a warm August morning it is not altogether unpleasant to recline on a long lounge chair in the deep soft shadow of full-foliaged trees and resign one’s self to meditation whi...

“You women are always so sentimental!” said the Philosopher, leaning back in a comfortable garden chair and lazily flicking off the ash from an excellent cigar;--“You overdo the...

Time has a trick of flying when most we wish it to linger, and with Sylvia the three months’ interval between Jack’s return and her wedding day seemed little more than a few mom...

And now the Sentimentalist became, unconsciously to herself, the central figure of a curious little drama, wherein three elderly gentlemen were the active performers, with a mys...

That same evening the Philosopher took it into his head to be uncommonly disagreeable and ill-mannered. He found fault with everything, even with his dinner (which he had neithe...

The ensuing weeks proved to the Philosopher beyond a doubt that so far as the war news was concerned it was not “twaddle.” Needless to recapitulate all the cruel and terrible ha...

And now the criss-cross pattern of the Philosopher’s awkward temperament began to urge itself into prominence. He made a feeble effort to assume a patience which he did not poss...

Sunday was always the pleasantest day in the week for the Sentimentalist. She loved the peace of it,--the hush that seemed to fall on all the traffic and business of the world,-...

“Rude!” he repeated, rather raspily. “And I venture to say that in an open field, within a few yards of the public road, a man who is such a fool as to drop on one knee at a wom...

He and she were walking together across a meadow full of buttercups and daisies, and they had just been on the point of what the middle-classes politely call “words.” He was not...

The next day,--oh, that next day! A day never to be forgotten by the pretty little Sentimentalist, though it left the Philosopher unmoved, or, as the slangy newspapers say, “col...

They were sitting on a smooth thyme-scented bank close to the river--a lovely river meandering slowly under pale green tresses of willow, and gurgling softly among reeds and wat...

“Ah! There be’s many a woman wot’s ’appy to know ’er man’s gone an’ not likely to come back--many on ’em, I sez!--reg’lar flim-flammeries an’ gad-abouts wot ain’t wuth ’arf-a-cr...

On the day of the famous “Armistice,” old Mr. Durham did what was for him an unusual thing--he went to London. Moreover he rose so early and went off so surreptitiously that “Ri...

It is a curious, but undisputed fact that when our most ardent wishes are suddenly gratified, an unaccountable sense of dissatisfaction is apt to set in. Who can explain it? Anx...

She took up her hat which had been lying on a table near her, and threw a fleecy wool scarf over her shoulders. It was a brilliant day, despite the wintry season, and a few red...

“Yes, it’s really me!” said Jack at last, lifting his head from among the soft fair curls that nestled against his breast. “Yes, you precious little ‘rose-lady’! Really me! And...

“Terms?” The old scholar shook his head. “My dear child, I don’t build any hopes in _that_ direction! If I can find a publisher to take the book at all I shall be fortunate--”