Читать книгу The White Kami - Edward Alden Jewell - Страница 20

Crawl Hill, when at last they reached it, proved to be a tall frowning old house, whose once considerable grounds had shrunk to a mere wisp of withered lawn. Within they breathed a heavy mustiness. It was a bit ghostly, too—decidedly a place to be visited by daylight.

And as for the little adventure—well, it didn’t, after all, lapse at the door. Mr. Curry, as they moved on together through the crowd, told himself there was nothing so very unusual in their having met like this. He was always meeting people—was a Bohemian—freely admitted it. But was this lady a Bohemian also? And who was she? He was on the verge of learning, and the method was rather happy.

It chanced that somewhat apart from the throng stood a satin-wood console of the French Renaissance period, on which reposed an ornate silver card tray. She liked the tray—“not that one would really want it, you know, for of course it is a little ‘overdone’; but it reminds one of the Victorians—doesn’t it?—and I think there was much to admire in them, although it has become the fashion to sneer at their dust-catching ‘ideas.’”

And the tray gave Mr. Curry an unexpected cue. He smiled and drew out his wallet, then, selecting one of his cards, tossed it humorously down. Her eyes lighted quickly, and, without a word, she brought out one of her own, too, and placed it beside his on the tray. Then they stood there side by side, like two absurd children, reading each other’s cards. Hers was very modest and simple: Flora Utterbourne, with no address. But his, being so ambitious, not to say overwhelming an affair, naturally called for a small smiling effusion on her part.

“I know you by ‘reputation,’ though I’ve never had the pleasure of attending one of your performances. It’s always sounded so interesting!”

And then—well, then he just plunged in and began telling her all about the world tour; and she suggested they sit down “in those delightful Lorenzo di Medici chairs;” no one would object, she was sure; and if they wanted to sell the chairs before he had finished telling her about the world tour, why then they would just move over to “that ‘Huguenot’ bench in the hall, which is sure not to be ‘put up,’” she laughed, “until quite the last thing!” So they sat in the Lorenzo di Medici chairs while the auction hummed on about them, and he opened his ardent heart, and she followed everything he said with an immense facial responsiveness. (Sometimes people found this a trifle disconcerting, because her feeling about whatever you were saying had a way of seeming just a bit stronger than your own.) And, in her large, rich, impulsive way she would keep interrupting him with fragments of delighted appreciation. “By Schooner!” for instance: “but this is the most amazing thing I ever heard of!” Or again: “No crew, but a fresh coat of paint!” She could grasp the essential high points of humour in a situation and bring them together; yet there was nothing the least satirical or mocking. The impresario felt on friendly turf, and deluged her with eager, bustling words. He became inspired, impassioned. He gestured a little wildly. But she found it all wildness with an appealing tang, and rejoiced in the current of his really electric enthusiasm. When he had finished, his whole eloquent person relaxed slowly. Mr. Curry was like a superb engine, which couldn’t be expected to cool off just in a minute.