O. Douglas
The House That is Our Own
Books
OK Publishing, 2020
[email protected] Tous droits réservés.
EAN 4064066310134
Table of Contents
To you, J. B., who, with little liking for mild
domestic fiction, read patiently my works,
blue-pencilling when you had to, praising
when you could, encouraging always, I
dedicate this story, which you are not here to
read, of places you knew and loved.
The house from which the heavens are fed.
The old strange house that is our own,
Where tricks of words are never said,
And Mercy is as plain as bread,
And Honour is as hard as stone.
G. K. Chesterton
CHAPTER I
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits.
The Comedy of Errors
Kitty Baillie threw down the book she was reading and yawned inelegantly.
“Why,” she asked, “does anyone ever read a thriller? They leave such a nasty sticky taste in one’s mind.”
“They leave me scared stiff,” said her companion. “But then, I’m a feeble soul.”
She did not look a feeble soul, this Isobel Logan, as she stood smiling down at her friend, and Kitty Baillie, who had sat herself down on the edge of her bed, said:
“Feeble! You? Why, you look like a pillar of the British Empire.”
Isobel, unimpressed by this tribute, continued. “Why read thrillers if you don’t like them?”
“Oh, just to make a change. I’ve been reading nothing but history lately.”
“Yes. I know. I like the book you lent me last—Henrietta Maria. That was more interesting than any novel. But how they could have beheaded that little gentle Charles, I don’t know!”
“Well,” said Kitty judicially, “he was terribly obstinate: dour to a degree.”
“As to that, if every obstinate
