Discrete Time Signal Processing 3rd Edition

Oppenheim Solutions Manual download

https://testbankfan.com/product/discrete-time-signal-
processing-3rd-edition-oppenheim-solutions-manual/

Find test banks or solution manuals at testbankfan.com today!

Here are some recommended products for you. Click the link to
download, or explore more at testbankfan.com

Digital Signal Processing using MATLAB 3rd Edition

Schilling Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/digital-signal-processing-using-
matlab-3rd-edition-schilling-solutions-manual/

Wavelet Tour of Signal Processing 3rd Edition Mallat

Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/wavelet-tour-of-signal-processing-3rd-
edition-mallat-solutions-manual/

Applied Digital Signal Processing 1st Edition Manolakis

Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/applied-digital-signal-processing-1st-
edition-manolakis-solutions-manual/

Marketing Real People Real Choices 8th Edition Solomon

Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/marketing-real-people-real-
choices-8th-edition-solomon-solutions-manual/
Purchasing and Supply Chain Management 3rd Edition Benton
Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/purchasing-and-supply-chain-
management-3rd-edition-benton-test-bank/

Cosmic Perspective The Solar System 8th Edition Bennett

Test Bank

https://testbankfan.com/product/cosmic-perspective-the-solar-
system-8th-edition-bennett-test-bank/

Business and Society Stakeholders Ethics Public Policy

15th Edition Lawrence Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/business-and-society-stakeholders-
ethics-public-policy-15th-edition-lawrence-solutions-manual/

Investments An Introduction 11th Edition Mayo Solutions

Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/investments-an-introduction-11th-
edition-mayo-solutions-manual/

Contemporary Project Management 4th Edition Kloppenborg

Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/contemporary-project-management-4th-
edition-kloppenborg-solutions-manual/
Mechanics of Materials 8th Edition Gere Solutions Manual

https://testbankfan.com/product/mechanics-of-materials-8th-edition-
gere-solutions-manual/
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 479

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

479
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 480

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

480
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 481

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

481
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 482

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

482
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 483

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

483
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 484

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

484
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 485

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

485
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 486

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

486
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 487

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

487
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 488

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

488
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 489

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

489
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 490

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

490
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 491

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

491
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 492

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

492
ch07.qxd 9/23/09 3:25 AM Page 493

© 2010 by Oppenheim. Published by Pearson Prentice Hall, Pearson Education, Inc., Upper Saddle River, NJ.
All rights reserved. This material is protected under all copyright laws as they currently exist. No portion of this
material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

493
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
 GREEN GARDENS

D APHNE was singing to herself when she came through the

painted gate in the back wall. She was singing partly
because it was June, and Devon, and she was
seventeen, and partly because she had caught a breath-taking
glimpse of herself in the long mirror as she had flashed through the
hall at home, and it seemed almost too good to be true that the
radiant small person in the green muslin frock with the wreath of
golden hair bound about her head and the sea-blue eyes laughing
back at her was really Miss Daphne Chiltern. Incredible, incredible
luck to look like that, half Dryad, half Kate Greenaway—she danced
down the turf path to the herb garden, swinging her great wicker
basket and singing like a mad thing.

“He promised to buy me a bonnie blue ribbon,” carolled Daphne,

all her ribbons flying,

“He promised to buy me a bonnie blue ribbon,

He promised to buy me a bonnie blue ribbon
To tie up——”

The song stopped as abruptly as though someone had struck it

from her lips. A strange man was kneeling by the beehive in the
herb garden. He was looking at her over his shoulder, at once
startled and amused, and she saw that he was wearing a rather
shabby tweed suit and that his face was brown against his close-
cropped tawny hair. He smiled, his teeth a strong flash of white.
“Hello!” he greeted her, in a tone at once casual and friendly.
 Daphne returned the smile uncertainly. “Hello,” she replied
gravely.
The strange man rose easily to his feet, and she saw that he
was very tall and carried his head rather splendidly, like the young
bronze Greek in Uncle Roland’s study at home. But his eyes—his
eyes were strange—quite dark and burned out. The rest of him
looked young and vivid and adventurous, but his eyes looked as
though the adventure were over, though they were still questing.
“Were you looking for any one?” she asked, and the man shook
his head, laughing.
“No one in particular, unless it was you.”
Daphne’s soft brow darkened. “It couldn’t possibly have been
me,” she said in a stately small voice, “because, you see, I don’t
know you. Perhaps you didn’t know that there is no one living in
Green Gardens now?”
“Oh, yes, I knew. The Fanes have left for Ceylon, haven’t they?”
“Sir Harry left two weeks ago, because he had to see the old
governor before he sailed, but Lady Audrey only left last week. She
had to close the London house, too, so there was a great deal to
do.”
“I see. And so Green Gardens is deserted?”
“It is sold,” said Daphne, with a small quaver in her voice, “just
this afternoon. I came over to say good-bye to it, and to get some
mint and lavender from the garden.”
“Sold?” repeated the man, and there was an agony of incredulity
in the stunned whisper. He flung out his arm against the sun-
warmed bricks of the high wall as though to hold off some invader.
“No, no; they’d never dare to sell it.”
“I’m glad you mind so much,” said Daphne. “It’s strange that
nobody minds but us, isn’t it? I cried at first—and then I thought
that it would be happier if it wasn’t lonely and empty, poor dear—
and then, it was such a beautiful day, that I forgot to be unhappy.”
The man bestowed a wrenched smile on her. “You hardly
conveyed the impression of unrelieved gloom as you came around
that corner,” he assured her.
“I—I haven’t a very good memory for being unhappy,” Daphne
confessed remorsefully, a guilty rose staining her to her brow at the
memory of that exultant chant.
He threw back his head with a sudden shout of laughter.
“These are glad tidings! I’d rather find a pagan than a Puritan at
Green Gardens any day. Let’s both have a poor memory. Do you
mind if I smoke?”
“No,” she replied, “but do you mind if I ask you what you are
doing here?”
“Not a bit.” He lit the stubby brown pipe, curving his hand
dexterously to shelter it from the little breeze. He had the most
beautiful hands that she had ever seen, slim and brown and fine;
they looked as though they would be miraculously strong—and
miraculously gentle. “I came to see whether there was ‘honey still
for tea,’ Mistress Dryad!”
“Honey—for tea?” she echoed wonderingly. “Was that why you
were looking at the hive?”
He puffed meditatively. “Well—partly. It’s a quotation from a
poem. Ever read Rupert Brooke?”
“Oh, yes, yes.” Her voice tripped in its eagerness. “I know one
by heart—

“‘If I should die think only this of me:

That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. That shall be——’”

He cut in on the magical little voice roughly.

 “Ah, what damned nonsense! Do you suppose he’s happy, in his
foreign field, that golden lover? Why shouldn’t even the dead be
homesick? No, no—he was sick for home in Germany when he wrote
that poem of mine—he’s sicker for it in Heaven, I’ll warrant.” He
pulled himself up swiftly at the look of amazement in Daphne’s eyes.
“I’ve clean forgotten my manners,” he confessed ruefully. “No, don’t
get that flying look in your eyes; I swear that I’ll be good. It’s a long
time—it’s a long time since I’ve talked to any one who needed
gentleness. If you knew what need I had of it, you’d stay a little
while, I think.”
“Of course I’ll stay,” she said. “I’d love to, if you want me to.”
“I want you to more than I’ve ever wanted anything that I can
remember.” His tone was so matter-of-fact that Daphne thought that
she must have imagined the words. “Now, can’t we make ourselves
comfortable for a little while? I’d feel safer if you weren’t standing
there ready for instant flight! Here’s a nice bit of grass—and the wall
for a back——”
Daphne glanced anxiously at the green muslin frock. “It’s—it’s
pretty hard to be comfortable without cushions,” she submitted
diffidently.
The man yielded again to laughter. “Are even Dryads afraid to
spoil their frocks? Cushions it shall be. There are some extra ones in
the chest in the East Indian room, aren’t there?”
Daphne let the basket slip through her fingers, her eyes black
through sheer surprise.
“But how did you know—how did you know about the lacquer
chest?” she whispered breathlessly.
“Oh, devil take me for a blundering ass!” He stood considering
her forlornly for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders, with
the brilliant and disarming smile. “The game’s up, thanks to my
inspired lunacy! But I’m going to trust you not to say that you’ve
seen me. I know about the lacquer chest because I always kept my
marbles there.”
 “Are you Stephen Fane?”
At the awed whisper the man bowed low, all mocking grace, his
hand on his heart, the sun burnishing his tawny head.
“Oh-h!” breathed Daphne. She bent to pick up the wicker basket,
her small face white and hard.
“Wait!” said Stephen Fane. His face was white and hard, too.
“You are right to go—entirely, absolutely right—but I am going to
beg you to stay. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me; however
vile it is, it’s less than the truth——”
“I have heard nothing of you,” said Daphne, holding her gold-
wreathed head high, “but five years ago I was not allowed to come
to Green Gardens for weeks because I mentioned your name. I was
told that it was not a name to pass decent lips.”
Something terrible leaped in those burned-out eyes, and died.
“I had not thought they would use their hate to lash a child,” he
said. “They were quite right—and you, too. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” replied Daphne clearly. She started down the path,
but at its bend she turned to look back—because she was
seventeen, and it was June, and she remembered his laughter. He
was standing quite still by the golden straw beehive, but he had
thrown one arm across his eyes, as though to shut out some
intolerable sight. And then, with a soft little rush, she was standing
beside him.
“How—how do we get the cushions?” she demanded
breathlessly.
Stephen Fane dropped his arm, and Daphne drew back a little at
the sudden blaze of wonder in his face.
“Oh,” he whispered voicelessly. “Oh, you Loveliness!” He took a
step toward her, and then stood still, clinching his brown hands.
Then he thrust them deep in his pockets, standing very straight. “I
do think,” he said carefully, “I do think you had better go. The fact
that I have tried to make you stay simply proves the particular type
of rotter that I am. Good-bye—I’ll never forget that you came back.”
“I am not going,” said Daphne sternly. “Not if you beg me.
Because you need me. And no matter how many wicked things you
have done, there can’t be anything as wicked as going away when
someone needs you. How do we get the cushions?”
“Oh, my wise Dryad!” His voice broke on laughter, but Daphne
saw that his lashes were suddenly bright with tears. “Stay, then—
why, even I cannot harm you. God himself can’t grudge me this little
space of wonder: He knows how far I’ve come for it—how I’ve
fought and struggled and ached to win it—how in dirty lands and
dirty places I’ve dreamed of summer twilight in a still garden—and
England!”
“Didn’t you dream of me?” asked Daphne wistfully, with a little
catch of reproach.
He laughed again unsteadily. “Why, who could ever dream of
you, my Wonder? You are a thousand thousand dreams come true.”
Daphne bestowed on him a tremulous and radiant smile. “Please
let us get the cushions. I think I am a little tired.”
“And I am a graceless fool! There used to be a pane of glass cut
out in one of the south casement windows. Shall we try that?”
“Please, yes. How did you find it, Stephen?” She saw again that
thrill of wonder on his face, but his voice was quite steady.
“I didn’t find it; I did it! It was uncommonly useful, getting in
that way sometimes, I can tell you. And, by the Lord Harry, here it
is. Wait a minute, Loveliness; I’ll get through and open the south
door for you—no chance that way of spoiling the frock.” He swung
himself up with the sure grace of a cat, smiled at her—vanished—it
was hardly a minute later that she heard the bolts dragging back in
the south door, and he flung it wide.
The sunlight streamed in through the deep hall and stretched
hesitant fingers into the dusty quiet of the great East Indian room,
gilding the soft tones of the faded chintz, touching very gently the
polished furniture and the dim prints on the walls. He swung across
the threshold without a word, Daphne tiptoeing behind him.
“How still it is,” he said in a hushed voice. “How sweet it smells!”
“It’s the potpourri in the Canton jars,” she told him shyly. “I
always made it every summer for Lady Audrey; she thought I did it
better than any one else. I think so, too.” She flushed at the mirth in
his eyes, but held her ground sturdily. “Flowers are sweeter for you
if you love them—even dead ones,” she explained bravely.
“They would be dead, indeed, if they were not sweet for you.”
Her cheeks burned bright at the low intensity of his voice, but he
turned suddenly away. “Oh, there she sails—there she sails still, my
beauty. Isn’t she the proud one, though—straight into the wind!” He
hung over the little ship model, thrilled as any child. “The Flying
Lady; see where it’s painted on her? Grandfather gave it to me when
I was seven—he had it from his father when he was six. Lord, how
proud I was!” He stood back to see it better, frowning a little. “One
of those ropes is wrong; any fool could tell that.” His hands hovered
over it for a moment—dropped. “No matter—the new owners are
probably not seafarers! The lacquer chest is at the far end, isn’t it?
Yes, here. Are three enough—four? We’re off!” But still he lingered,
sweeping the great room with his dark eyes. “It’s full of all kinds of
junk; they never liked it—no period, you see. I had the run of it—I
loved it as though it were alive; it was alive for me. From Elizabeth’s
day down, all the family adventurers brought their treasures here—
beaten gold and hammered silver, mother-of-pearl and peacock
feathers, strange woods and stranger spices, porcelains and
embroideries and blown glass. There was always an adventurer
somewhere in each generation—and however far he wandered, he
came back to Green Gardens to bring his treasures home. When I
was a yellow-headed imp of Satan, hiding my marbles in the lacquer
chest, I used to swear that when I grew up I would bring home the
finest treasure of all, if I had to search the world from end to end.
And now the last adventurer has come home to Green Gardens—and
he has searched the world from end to end—and he is empty-
handed.”
“No, no,” whispered Daphne. “He has brought home the greatest
treasure of all, that adventurer. He has brought home the beaten
gold of his love and the hammered silver of his dreams—and he has
brought them from very far.”
“He had brought greater treasures than those to you, lucky
room,” said the last of the adventurers. “You can never be sad again;
you will always be gay and proud—because for just one moment he
brought you the gold of her hair and the silver of her voice.”
“He is talking great nonsense, room,” said a very small voice,
“but it is beautiful nonsense, and I am a wicked girl, and I hope that
he will talk some more. And please, I think we will go into the
garden and see.”
All the way back down the flagged path to the herb garden they
were quiet; even after he had arranged the cushions against the
rose-red wall, even after he had stretched out at full length beside
her and lighted another pipe.
After a while he said, staring at the straw hive: “There used to
be a jolly little fat brown one that was a great pal of mine. How long
do bees live?”
“I don’t know,” she answered vaguely, and after a long pause,
full of quiet, pleasant odours from the herb garden, and the happy
noises of small things tucking themselves away for the night, and
the faint drift of tobacco smoke, she asked: “What was it about
‘honey still for tea’?”
“Oh, that!” He raised himself on one elbow so that he could see
her better. “It was a poem I came across while I was in East Africa;
someone sent a copy of Rupert Brooke’s things to a chap out there,
and this one fastened itself around me like a vise. It starts where
he’s sitting in a café in Berlin with a lot of German Jews around him,
swallowing down their beer; and suddenly he remembers. All the
lost, unforgettable beauty comes back to him in that dirty place; it
gets him by the throat. It got me, too.

“‘Ah, God! to see the branches stir

Across the moon at Grantchester!
To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten
Unforgettable, unforgotten
River-smell, and hear the breeze
Sobbing in the little trees....
Oh, is the water sweet and cool,
Gentle and brown, above the pool?
And laughs the immortal river still
Under the mill, under the mill?
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
Deep meadows yet, for to forget
The lies, and truths, and pain?... oh, yet
Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?’”

“That’s beautiful,” she said, “but it hurts.”

“Thank God you’ll never know how it hurts, little Golden Heart in
quiet gardens. But for some of us, caught like rats in the trap of the
ugly fever we called living, it was black torture, and yet our dear
delight to remember the deep meadows we had lost—to wonder if
there was honey still for tea.”
“Stephen, won’t you tell me about it—won’t that help?”
And suddenly someone else looked at her through those
haunted eyes—a little boy, terrified and forsaken. “Oh, I have no
right to soil you with it. But I came back to tell someone about it; I
had to. I had to wait until Father and Audrey went away. I knew
they’d hate to see me—she was my step-mother, you know, and she
always loathed me, and he never cared. In East Africa I used to stay
awake at night thinking that I might die, and that no one in England
would ever care; no one would know how I had loved her. It was
worse than dying to think that.”
“But why couldn’t you come back to Green Gardens—why
couldn’t you make them see, Stephen?”
“Why, what was there to see? When they sent me down from
Cambridge for that dirty little affair, I was only nineteen—and they
told me I had disgraced my name and Green Gardens and my
country—and I went mad with pride and shame, and swore I’d drag
their precious name through the dirt of every country in the world.
And I did—and I did.”
His head was buried in his arms, but Daphne heard. It seemed
strange indeed to her that she felt no shrinking and no terror; only
great pity for what he had lost, great grief for what he might have
had. For a minute she forgot that she was Daphne, the heedless and
gay-hearted, and that he was a broken and an evil man. For a
minute he was a little lad, and she was his lost mother.
“Don’t mind, Stephen,” she whispered to him, “don’t mind. Now
you have come home; now it is all done with, that ugliness. Please,
please don’t mind.”
“No, no,” said the stricken voice, “you don’t know, you don’t
know, thank God. But I swear I’ve paid—I swear I have. When the
others used to take their dirty drugs to make them forget, they’d
dream of strange paradises, unknown heavens; but through the
haze and mist that they brought, I would remember—I would
remember. The filth and the vileness would fade and dissolve—and I
would see the sun-dial, with the roses on it, warm in the sun, and
smell the clove pinks in the kitchen border, and touch the cresses by
the brook, cool and green and wet. All the sullen drums and whining
flutes would sink to silence, and I would hear the little yellow-
headed cousin of the vicar singing in the twilight, singing. ‘Weep you
no more, sad fountains’ and ‘Hark, hark, the lark.’ And the painted
yellow faces and the little wicked hands and perfumed fans would
vanish and I would see again the gay beauty of the lady who hung
above the mantel in the long drawing room, the lady who laughed
across the centuries in her white muslin frock, with eyes that
matched the blue ribbon in her wind-blown curls—the lady who was
as young and lovely as England, for all the years! Oh, I would
remember, I would remember! It was twilight, and I was hurrying
home through the dusk after tennis at the rectory; there was a bell
ringing quietly somewhere, and a moth flying by brushed against my
face with velvet—and I could smell the hawthorn hedge glimmering
white, and see the first star swinging low above the trees, and lower
still, and brighter still, the lights of home.... And then before my very
eyes they would fade, they would fade, dimmer and dimmer—they
would flicker and go out, and I would be back again, with tawdriness
and shame and vileness fast about me; and I would pay.”
“But now you have paid enough,” Daphne told him. “Oh, surely,
surely, you have paid enough. Now you have come home—now you
can forget.”
“No,” said Stephen Fane. “Now I must go.”
“Go?” At the startled echo he raised his head.
“What else?” he asked. “Did you think that I would stay?”
“But I do not want you to go.” Her lips were white, but she
spoke very clearly.
Stephen Fane never moved, but his eyes, dark and wondering,
rested on her like a caress.
“Oh, my little Loveliness, what dream is this?”
“You must not go away again; you must not.”
“I am baser than I thought,” he said, very low. “I have made you
pity me, I who forfeited your lovely pity this long time. It cannot
even touch me now. I have sat here like a dark Othello telling tales
to a small white Desdemona, and you, God help me, have thought
me tragic and abused. You shall not think that. In a few minutes I
will be gone; I’ll not have you waste a dream on me. Listen; there is
nothing vile that I’ve not done—nothing, do you hear? Not clean sin,
like murder; I’ve cheated at cards, and played with loaded dice, and
stolen the rings off the fingers of an Argentine Jewess who——” His
voice twisted and broke before the lovely mercy in the frightened
eyes that still met his so bravely.
“Why, Stephen?”
“So that I could buy my dreams. So that I could purchase peace
with little dabs of brown in a pipe-bowl, little puffs of white in the
palm of my hand, little drops of liquid on a ball of cotton. So that I
could drug myself with dirt—and forget the dirt and remember
England.”
He rose to his feet with that swift grace of his, and Daphne rose,
too, slowly.
“I am going now; will you walk to the gate with me?”
He matched his long step to hers, watching the troubled wonder
on her face intently.
“How old are you, my Dryad?”
“I am seventeen.”
“Seventeen! Oh, God be good to us, I had forgotten that one
could be seventeen. What’s that?”
He paused, suddenly alert, listening to a distant whistle, sweet
on the summer air.
“Oh, that—that is Robin.”
“Ah——” His smile flashed, tender and ironic. “And who is
Robin?”
“He is—just Robin. He is down from Cambridge for a week, and I
told him that he might walk home with me.”
“Then I must be off quickly. Is he coming to this gate?”
“No, to the south one.”
 “Listen to me, my Dryad—are you listening?” For her face was
turned away.
“Yes,” said Daphne.
“You are going to forget me, to forget this afternoon, to forget
everything but Robin whistling through the summer twilight.”
“No,” said Daphne.
“Yes; because you have a very poor memory about unhappy
things! You told me so. But just for a minute after I have gone you
will remember that now all is very well with me, because I have
found the deep meadows—and honey still for tea—and you. You are
to remember that for just one minute, will you? And now
good-bye——”
She tried to say the words, but she could not. For a moment he
stood staring down at the white pathos of the small face, and then
he turned away. But when he came to the gate, he paused and put
his arms about the wall, as though he would never let it go, laying
his cheek against the sun-warmed bricks, his eyes fast closed. The
whistling came nearer, and he stirred, put his hand on the little
painted gate, vaulted across it lightly, and was gone. She turned at
Robin’s quick step on the walk.
“Ready, dear? What are you staring at?”
“Nothing. Robin, did you ever hear of Stephen Fane?”
He nodded grimly.
“Do you know—do you know what he is doing now?”
“Doing now?” He stared at her blankly. “What on earth do you
mean? He’s been dead for months; killed in the campaign in East
Africa—only decent thing he ever did in his life. Why?”
Daphne never stirred. She stood quite still, staring at the painted
gate. Then she said, very carefully: “Someone thought—someone
thought that they had seen him—quite lately.”
 Robin laughed comfortingly. “No use looking so scared about it,
my blessed child. Perhaps they did. The War Office made all kinds of
ghastly blunders; it was a quick step from ‘missing in action’ to
‘killed.’ And he probably would have been jolly glad of a chance to
drop out quietly and have everyone think he was done for.”
Daphne never took her eyes from the gate. “Yes,” she said
quietly, “I suppose he would. Will you get my basket, Robin? I left it
by the beehive. There are some cushions that belong in the East
Indian room, too. The south door is open.”
When he had gone, she stood shaking for a moment, listening to
his footsteps die away, and then she flew to the gate, searching the
twilight desperately with straining eyes. There was no one there—no
one at all—but then the turn in the lane would have hidden him by
now. And suddenly terror fell from her like a cloak.
She turned swiftly to the brick wall, straining up, up on tiptoes,
to lay her cheek against its roughened surface, to touch it very
gently with her lips. She could hear Robin whistling down the path,
but she did not turn. She was bidding farewell to Green Gardens—
and the last adventurer.
 DELILAH

“B UT what is she like?” asked O’Hara impatiently. “Man

alive, you’ve seen her, haven’t you? Sat next to her
at dinner at the Embassy last night, didn’t you? Well,
then, for the love of the Saints, what’s the creature like?”

De Nemours shrugged his shoulders, raising whimsical eyebrows

at the slim young giant towering above him.
“Mon cher, one cannot put the lady into two words. Voyons—she
is, as our Alfred so charmingly puts it, blonde like the wheat——”
“Oh, rot.” The ardent voice of the British representative was curt
to the point of rudeness, and De Nemour’s smile became exquisitely
courteous. “I don’t care whether she’s an albino. She’s the American
representative on this committee, and I’m interested in her mental
qualifications. Is she intelligent?”
“Intelligent! Ah, my poor friend, she is far, far worse.” His smile
grew reminiscent as he lit his cigarette. “She has a wit like a shining
sword, and eyelashes of a truly fantastic length.”
“And every time her eyes shine you think it’s the sword,”
commented O’Hara bitterly. “God, this is hideous! I can see her
sitting there chattering epigrams and fluttering dimples——”
“You do Mrs. Lindsay an injustice,” said another voice quietly,
and O’Hara swung around with a slight start.
“Oh, Celati, I clean forgot that you were there. I thought that
you had never met the lady.”
 “Unfortunately for me, you are entirely correct. But last night I
came in after the dinner for some bridge, and I watched Mrs.
Lindsay with great interest, with great admiration, for more than half
an hour. There was a most fat Senator from the South talking to her,
and she was listening. I say listening, mark. In this great country the
most charming of women feel that they have already acquired all
desirable information and wisdom and that it is their not unpainful
function to disseminate it. I find that it makes intercourse more
exciting than flattering. But Mrs. Lindsay was—listening.”
“You mean to say that she said nothing at all in half an hour?”
O’Hara’s tone was flatly incredulous.
“Oh, si, si, she spoke three times—and if one may judge by the
human countenance, I dare to wager that that most fat Senator
thought that never woman spoke more wittily or wisely.”
“And we are to have the jewels?”
“But surely. She said after the first ten minutes, ‘Oh, but do go
on!’ and after the next, ‘But what happened then?’ and after the
third ‘Good-night—and thank you.’ May I have a light, De Nemours?
Thanks!”
“And those—those are the epigrams?” O’Hara threw back his
head and laughed—a sudden boyish shout, oddly at variance with
his stern young face.
“Ah,” murmured Celati, a reminiscent and enigmatic smile
touching his lips, “you should have heard her voice!”
O’Hara’s smile vanished abruptly. He came perilously near
scowling as he stood staring down at the inscrutable Latin
countenances blandly presented for inspection. De Nemours
permitted a flicker of genial appreciation to warm his cold eyes, the
tribute of a highly distinguished connoisseur. Truly, this young
Irishman, he was of a magnificence. No collector of beauty in all its
forms could remain unmoved by the sight of that superb head—that
more than superb body. Praxiteles Hermes turned gypsy! One of
those Celts with obviously Spanish blood running hot and cold
through their veins. The cool appraisal hovered for the moment on
the verge of interest—flickered out. De Nemours was quite definitely
convinced that not one man in a thousand was deserving of interest,
and he had found little in an extremely varied experience to shake
his conclusions.
“An exquisite voice,” he agreed pleasantly. “It will turn our
dullest statistics to madrigals. The gods are merciful.”
O’Hara swung his chair to the table, protest bitter in his stormy
gray eyes and on his quick tongue. These damned foreigners!
“You don’t seem to grasp the situation. We are here to settle
matters of vital urgency, not to conduct a salon. Our reports on the
various insurgent activities throughout our countries are to be test
cases for the world. We’re not only to report conditions but to
suggest solutions. Think, man, think! This room may be the
laboratory where we will discover the formula to heal a world that’s
near to dying. Can you turn that into an epigram or a jest?”
“No,” said De Nemours softly, and he looked suddenly very tired
and very old, “that is no epigram, Monsieur O’Hara—that is no jest.
Ah, my country, my country.” His voice was hardly above a whisper,
but in the cold and bitter eyes there was something that wailed
aloud.
“Yes, my country,” O’Hara retorted fiercely, “but more than that.
There are five members of this Committee—not four.”
“Not four?” Celati’s level voice was suddenly sharp.
“Not four. There will be represented at this table Great Britain,
France, Italy, the United States—and Humanity. The greatest of
these, gentlemen, will have no voice.”
“Au bonheur!” commented De Nemours affably. “It, unlike Mrs.
Lindsay, might not sing us madrigals.”
O’Hara brought his clenched fist down on the table with a
gesture at once despairing and menacing. “Now by the Lord,” he
said, his voice oddly shaken, “if this woman——”
 The door into the hall opened very quietly, closed more quietly
still, and Delilah Lindsay stood facing them, her hand still on the
knob.
“I knocked twice,” she said softly. “The woodwork must be very
thick.”
O’Hara rose slowly to his feet. Celati and De Nemours had
already found theirs.
“Good evening,” he said, “it’s not quite the hour, I believe.” He
was fighting an absurd and overwhelming impulse—an impulse to
reply with perfect candour, “The woodwork is not thick at all. Were
you listening at that door?”
For a moment, hardly longer, Delilah stood quite still. It was long
enough to stamp on every mind present an indelible picture of the
primrose-yellow head shining out against the dark panels; therefore,
long enough for all practical purposes. She released the door-knob,
smiling very faintly.
“It is unfortunate for a man to be late,” she replied, “but
unpardonable for a woman. We have so much time of our own to
waste that we must be very careful not to waste that of others. Bon
soir, De Nemours.”
She crossed the room with her light, unhurried tread, and
stopped, serenely gracious, before O’Hara.
“You are the British representative, are you not? It is very stupid
of me, but I don’t believe that I have heard your name.”
“You have heard it a good hundred times,” thought the British
representative grimly.
“Madame, permit that I present to you Mr. O’Hara.”
“Mr. O’Hara?” Her smile was suddenly as winningly mischievous
as a child’s. “That’s a grand name entirely for an Englishman.”
O’Hara’s eyes were ice gray. “I’m no Englishman, Mrs. Lindsay.
But some of us in Ireland hold still that we are part of Great Britain
though the Colonials may have seen fit to forget it.”
The velvety eyes lifted to his were warm with sympathy and
concern. “That’s splendid of you; we hear so much bitterness
amongst the Irish here, and somehow it seems—ugly. After all, as
you say, no matter what she may do—or has done—England is
England! But I am distressed to hear that there has been disloyalty
elsewhere. You think Canada—Australia?”
“I think neither. It was of other children of England that I was
thinking, Mrs. Lindsay—ungrateful and rebellious children.”
“Oh, how stupid. Egypt, of course, and India. But, after all, they
are only adopted children, aren’t they? Perhaps if we give them time
they’ll grow to be as loyal and steadfast and dependable as you
yourselves. Pazienza——”
“I was not——”
She raised a protesting hand, gay and imperious. “No, no, don’t
even bother to deny it. You must be discreet, I know—indeed,
indeed I honour you for it.” She turned to De Nemours, the sparkling
face suddenly grave. “But we must not be forgetting; we are here to
discuss more vital matters than England’s colonial policy, vital as that
may well be. Will you forgive us—and present my colleague from
Italy?”
“Mrs. Lindsay, Signor Celati.” Both De Nemours and Celati were
struggling with countenances not habitually slaves to mirth, but the
look of stony and incredulous amazement on O’Hara’s expressive
visage was enough to undermine the Sphinx.
By what miracle of dexterity had she turned the tables on him,
leaving him gracefully rebuked for triviality—he, the prophet and
crusader? And by what magic had she transformed his very palpable
hit at the recalcitrant Americans into a boomerang? He drew a long
breath. This woman—this woman was so unscrupulously clever that
she could afford to seem stupid. That rendered her pretty nearly
invulnerable. The stormy eyes grew still—narrowed intently—smiled.
 “Mrs. Lindsay is entirely right,” he agreed. “Let us get to
business; Heaven knows that we have enough of it to get through!
Mrs. Lindsay, we have gone over a certain amount of ground in your
unavoidable absence. I regret——”
“I, too, regret it,” she said quietly. “But it is, as you say,
unavoidable. I was greatly honoured by the Government’s choice,
but it was impossible for me to drop the Oregon investigations at
that stage. If I could have the minutes of the previous meetings——”
“We have no minutes. It has been decided to dispense with the
services of a stenographer, as the matters handled are of really
incalculable delicacy. Each of us, however, keeps an abstract of the
proceedings, which we check up together, in order to prevent any
possible misunderstandings. These are at your disposal, naturally.”
“I see. Then if it will not be too much trouble, I’ll run through
yours. It will only be necessary to see one lot, if they have been
checked, of course. Shall we begin where you left off, then? And
shall I take this chair? I’m quite ready. I left my hat and cloak and
such feminine trappings downstairs. What is under discussion?”
“I’ll have the report for you at the next meeting,” said O’Hara.
“We were thrashing out the situation in Rome. You think that the
Pope will influence the Blacks to vote against the commonist
element, Celati? That’s unusual, isn’t it? A distinct return to temporal
power?”
“Unusual, yes. A return to temporal power? Possibly. But the
Vatican contends that it is a spiritual and social matter rather than a
political matter. It seems——”
For a moment—for more than a moment O’Hara lost track of the
even, unemotional voice. He was watching, with a blazing and
concentrated curiosity, the face of the American representative. Mrs.
Lindsay was listening to the Italian with rapt interest, but O’Hara
could have sworn that it was the same interest, fascinated and
indulgent, which an intelligent small child bestows on a grown-up
telling fairy tales—an interest which whispers “It’s so pretty—let’s
pretend it’s true!” She looked almost like a small child as she sat
facing him across the darkly shining table; almost like a small boy.
Her thick, soft hair was cut short and framed her face like a little
mediæval page’s—straight across the low white forehead, curling
strongly under about her ears. The blue jacket with its white Eton
collar and narrow cuffs was boyish, too. And the chin—O’Hara pulled
himself up, frowning. He was mad! His cousin Norah was boyish, if
you like, with her honest freckled face and puppy eyes, and red
hands—but this small smooth creature could clip her shining hair to
its roots—it would only betray the eternal feminine more damningly.
No stiff collar would ever do anything but accentuate the velvety
darkness of her eyes, the pure beauty of the wistful mouth. Possibly
that was why she wore it! He caught back a grim smile as the velvet
eyes met his.
“It’s desperately awkward, of course,” said the voice that De
Nemours had accurately described as exquisite. “What solution
would you suggest, Mr. O’Hara?”
“I am not yet prepared to offer a solution,” Mr. O’Hara informed
her a trifle stiffly. What in the name of Gods and Devils had Celati
been talking about, anyway?
“But after all,” urged Mrs. Lindsay, “it comes down to a question
of two alternatives, doesn’t it? Which seems to you the lesser evil?”
“I prefer to wait until we hear a little more about it.” His back
was against the wall, but he thoroughly intended to die fighting.
“More about it? What more is there to hear?” Her amazement
was so wide-eyed that it seemed almost impossible that it was not
genuine. But if you had put thumb-screws to him, O’Hara would
have maintained that in some inexplicable manner the small,
demure, deferential fiend across the table was fully aware of the fact
that he had not been listening—and fully prepared to make his
unsuspicious colleagues aware of it, too.
“Part of it did not seem quite clear to me,” he said curtly.
 “Not clear?” repeated Celati, his imperturbable calm severely
ruffled, “what do you say, not clear? You find my English at fault,
possibly—certainly not my explanation. No child could do that.”
“Surely not,” agreed Mrs. Lindsay, and her voice was as soothing
as a cool hand, “I confess that it struck me as—well—limpid. But
perhaps Mr. O’Hara will tell us just what part of it he did not follow?”
“Put it,” said O’Hara, with something perilously like hatred
blazing in his eyes, “that I did not follow. We are simply wasting
time. Will someone repeat the alternatives?”
Mrs. Lindsay’s gravely solicitous eyes met the look unflinchingly.
“Surely. All this is simply wasting time, as you say. It comes down to
a question as to whether it is preferable for the Italian Government
to countenance or discountenance the Papal entry into politics. In
the present case it is naturally an asset, but it is possible that it
might entail serious consequences. I put it baldly and clumsily, but I
am trying to be quite clear.”
“You are succeeding admirably,” O’Hara assured her. He was
dangerously angry, with the violent and sickening anger of a man
who had been made a fool of—and who has richly deserved it. “As
you say, it is—limpid. But why not a third alternative? Why should
the Italian Government do anything at all? Why not simply lie quiet
and play safe? It would not be for the first time.”
“Mr. O’Hara!” Celati was on his feet, white to the lips.
Mrs. Lindsay stretched out her hands with a prettily eloquent
gesture of despair. “Oh, really!” she said quietly. “Is this kind of thing
necessary? We are all working together for the same purpose—a
purpose that has surely too much dignity to be degraded to such
pettiness. Mr. O’Hara, I beg of you——”
“It is not necessary to beg of me.” He leaned across the table,
something boyish and winning in his face, his hand outstretched. “I
say, Celati, I’m no end of a bounder; do let me off this once—I’m
bone tired—haven’t slept for nights, trying to think of ways through
this beastly mess. I don’t know what I’m saying, and that’s Heaven’s
truth. Is it all right?”
“Quite. We are, I think, all tired.”
“Men,” Mrs. Lindsay murmured gently—“men are really
wonderful. What two women would have done that?”
O’Hara considered her for a moment in silence.
“Is that a tribute you are paying us?” he inquired quite as gently.
“Why, what else?” Again the soft amazement.
“I was seeking information. It struck me as ambiguous.”
Mrs. Lindsay smiled, that enigmatic smile, wistful and ironic. “It
is undue humility on your part, believe me. But shan’t we get back
to the matter in hand? Monsieur De Nemours, what is your opinion?”
“I think there is much in Mr. O’Hara’s suggestion that the
Government should not be over-precipitate,” replied De Nemours
pleasantly. He was horribly bored; politics, unless they concerned
France, bored him almost beyond endurance, but his ennui was
somewhat alleviated by the fact that a very pretty woman was
asking him a question. “If silence were maintained for a few weeks,
it might well be——”
O’Hara was listening—fiercely. He was sure that he could smell
violets somewhere; why didn’t the woman take her hands off the
table? They lay there, white and fragile and helpless, like broken
flowers. Why didn’t she wear a wedding ring? Why—he jerked his
tired mind back savagely to De Nemours’ easy, fluent voice, his tired
eyes to the worn but amiable mask that the Frenchman substituted
for a face. Why didn’t he stop talking?
“We, in France, have been learning tolerance to God as well as
to man,” he was saying. “Possibly before the war we have been
drastic, but the truly remarkable revival——”
France again! France and Italy and Oregon—on and on and on—
the clock on the mantel clicked away the minutes ruthlessly, the
precious minutes that belonged to a dying world. It was striking
eleven when Mrs. Lindsay rose.
“Then that’s cleared up, I think,” she said. “We begin the regular
routine to-morrow morning, don’t we? Half-past nine? And here?”
“The house has been placed at my disposal,” replied O’Hara
formally. “I have placed it at the Committee’s. It has proved a
convenient arrangement.”
“Are the night sessions usual?” she asked.
“Usual? I don’t know.” He looked at her wearily; how could any
one emerge from that harrowing bickering and manœuvering so
fresh and untouched and shining? “We have them when it seems
necessary—how often should you say, De Nemours?”
“Never mind.” The cool fingers were touching his; she was
going. “I will keep my evenings free, too—I was simply wondering
what to do about some invitations. But nothing else counts, of
course, does it? Do get a good rest; you look so tired. Good-night.”
She smiled, nodded the golden head graciously, and was gone.
O’Hara stood gazing blankly at the closed door for a moment—
then he swung across the room, flung the windows up with a
carefully controlled violence, and stood leaning heavily against its
frame, his shoulders sagging suddenly, his tired young face turned to
the stars.
“You find it too warm?” De Nemours inquired courteously.
“No—I don’t know. Those beastly violets——”
“Violets?” De Nemours waited with raised brows.
“The first time the poison gas came over at Ypres, the chap
standing next to me said, ‘Funny—there’s a jolly smell of violets
about.’ Violets—God!” His voice twisted—broke. But after a minute
he continued casually: “Rotten trick to have your senses go back on
you like that, what? They’re the little beggars Nature has given us
for guards and watchmen and here one of them turns traitor and
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

testbankfan.com