Читать книгу Roper's Row - Warwick Deeping - Страница 24

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To Christopher there came a sudden righting of his dignity. It seemed to him quite natural he should say certain things to Moorhouse, and do certain things in his presence, quietly and without shame.

“Do you mind if I tidy up?”

“Go ahead.”

Moorhouse sat at the open window and smoked and observed this London vista, while Christopher made his bed, and emptied his basin, and washed and put away the breakfast crockery. Mostly there was silence between them, but here and there a few words were dropped with a tentative yet significant curtness.

“That poplar tree over there is rather unexpected.”

“Yes, there’s a tree just like it close to where my mother lives in Wiltshire.”

“Which part?”

“Melfont. On the Avon.”

“Great country. We are Gloucestershire. This ought to be a good window to read at.”

Hazzard was poking the broken violin away under the chest of drawers.

“My mother used to keep a shop. She’s a wonderful woman. I have to rough it a bit, but then—a man doesn’t mind—when someone——”

“Of course not. My mater’s a great woman. I say, Hazzard, why don’t you take up coaching?”

“Coaching?”

“Yes, with your brains. It ought to be easy for you to get half a dozen duffers to cram. You might even begin on me.”

“You’re not a duffer,” said Christopher sharply.

“No, but I’m damned lazy. Think it over——”

When Hazzard’s household activities were over he took down the new cloth cap from the peg behind the door, and glanced at Moorhouse’s bowler that sleeked itself in the sunlight on the table by the window.

“I’m ready now.”

“Come along.”