Читать книгу Self Condemned онлайн

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'Her mama has an enquiring mind, too. It's a beastly thing to have, I agree.'

He lighted a cigarette and watched her almost furtively for a few seconds. Then he placed his hand upon an open letter at the side of his plate.

'What shall we do about Richard?'

'When does he want us to go?'

'About the tenth, I think, of next month. How do you feel about it?'

She sat with her hands behind her head, staring silently at the wall behind his head. Neither spoke for some minutes.

'I do not feel terribly like the idyllic landscape of England just at present,' he observed. 'Do you feel like going down yourself for a week-end? It would do you good.'

'Not by myself; because I look countryfied, they would want me to milk their cow and draw water from their well. I came back last time from their place thoroughly worn out.'

'Right. Anything would be better than bucolic England just at present, for me. I must write him.'

A bell in the little hallway exploded into hysterical life. A door, from behind which the hum of a vacuum cleaner had for some time been heard, opened, and one of London's Dickensian charladies stood there without moving for a moment, a small bird-like figure with a white crest, which bobbed backwards and forwards, and an irascible eye. This eye was directed across the breakfast table towards the front door. The charlady propelled herself around the room, head shooting in and out, and darted at the front door, ready for battle. Her small raucous challenge was heard, 'What is it? Ooder ye want?' The landing was extremely dark, and Mrs. Harradson never could see who her enemy was. In the present case a telegram appeared out of the shadows impolitely near her little beak. She seized it, and, with considerable suspicion, holding it between thumb and forefinger, she re-entered the breakfast room.