William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: Derelicts by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: The White Dove by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: A Study in Shadows by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: Idols by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: The Demagogue and Lady Phayre by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: Where Love Is by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: Far-away Stories by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: Where Love Is by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: Idols by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: At the Gate of Samaria by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: The Demagogue and Lady Phayre by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: The White Dove by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: Derelicts by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: A Study in Shadows by William J. Locke

Reproduction of the original: Far-away Stories by William J. Locke

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. STELLA MARIS-Star of the Sea That was not her real name. No one could have christened an inoffensive babe so absurdly. Her mother had, indeed, through the agency of godfathers and godmothers, called her Stella after a rich old maiden aunt, thereby showing her wisdom; for the maiden aunt died gratefully a year after the child was born, and bequeathed to her a comfortable fortune. Her father had given her the respectable patronymic of Blount, which, as all the world knows, or ought to know, is not pronounced as it is spelled. It is not pronounced "Maris," however, as, in view of the many vagaries of British nomenclature, it might very well be, but "Blunt." It was Walter Herold, the fantastic, who tacked on the Maris to her Christian name, and ran the two words together so that to all and sundry the poor child became Stellamaris, and to herself a baptismal puzzle, never being quite certain whether Stella was not a pert diminutive, and whether she ought to subscribe herself in formal documents as "Stellamaris Blount." The invention of this title must not be regarded as the supreme effort of the imagination of Walter Herold. It would have been obvious to anybody with a bowing acquaintance with the Latin tongue.

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. Felicia Graves was puzzled. The six weeks she had spent at the Pension Boccard had confused many of her conceptions and brought things before her judgment for which her standards were inadequate. Not that a girl who had passed the few years of her young womanhood in the bubbling life of a garrison town could be as unsophisticated as village innocence in the play; but her fresh, virginal experience had been limited to what was seemly, orthodox, and comfortable. She was shrewd enough in the appreciation of superficial vanities, rightly esteeming their value as permanent elements; but the baser follies of human nature had not been reached by her young eyes. Her whole philosophy of life had been bound up in well-ordered family systems, in which the men were honest and well-bred, and the women either comfortable matrons or fresh-minded, companionable girls like herself. She knew vaguely that sorrows and bitterness and broken lives existed in the world, but hitherto she had never reckoned upon coming into contact with them. They all lay in the dim sphere where crime and immorality held sway, whose internal upheavals affected her as little as dynastic commotions in China. The lives and habits and opinions therefore of the six lonely women who, with one old gentleman, formed her sole daily companions in the Pension Boccard, were a subject of much puzzled and half-frightened speculation on the part of the young English girl.

Thank you for checking out this book by Theophania Publishing. We appreciate your business and look forward to serving you soon. We have thousands of titles available, and we invite you to search for us by name, contact us via our website, or download our most recent catalogues. HAVE you dined at Ranelagh lately?" asked Norma Hardacre. "I have never been there in my life," replied Jimmie Padgate. "In fact," he added simply, "I am not quite sure whether I know where it is." "Yours is the happier state. It is one of the dullest spots in a dull world." "Then why on earth do people go there?" The enquiry was so genuine that Miss Hardacre relaxed her expression of handsome boredom and laughed. "Because we are all like the muttons of Panurge," she said. "Where one goes, all go. Why are we here to-night?" "To enjoy ourselves. How could one do otherwise in Mrs. Deering's house?" "You have known her a long time, I believe," remarked Norma, taking the opportunity of directing the conversation to a non-contentious topic. "Since she was in short frocks. She is a cousin of King's-that's the man who took you down to dinner-" She nodded. "I have known Mr. King many weary ages." "And he has never told me about you " "Why should he?" She looked him full in the face, with the stony calm of the fashionable young woman accustomed to take excellent care of herself. Her companion met her stare in whimsical confusion. Even so ingenuous a being as Jimmie Padgate could not tell a girl he had met for the first time that she was beautiful, adorable, and graced with divine qualities above all women, and that intimate acquaintance with her must be the startling glory of a lifetime. "If I had known you for ages," he replied prudently, "I should have mentioned your name to Morland King."