Читать книгу The Peacock Feather. A Romance онлайн

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“Thanks be to the patron saint of all wayfarers,” said Peter, “that I found this shelter. [Pg 32]And if I knew his name I’d indite a poem to his memory.”

And then he fell to thinking of the young man who, earlier in the day, had intruded on his slumbers and read poems from his Chaucer. That he was a pleasant young man Peter had already conceded. That he had combined an extraordinary mixture of intuition with a certain lack of reticence almost amounting to want of tact, Peter also conceded. That there was nothing about him of very deep psychological interest, Peter knew. But—well, he was a man of gentle birth, and he had treated Peter—the wayfaring Peter with frayed trousers and a patch on one knee—as an equal. It had left a very decided sensation of pleasure. Peter acknowledged to himself that he would have liked to accept the young man’s invitation; and yet if he had—well, he would probably have drivelled more than he had done, and he had drivelled quite enough. That was the worst of unaccustomed and genuine interest from one of your fellow-men. It was like wine to one not used to it—it mounted to your brain, you became garrulous. To those who are used to wine, one glass, two glasses, nay, even [Pg 33]three glasses, means nothing. To those who have not tasted the liquor for years, half a glass may prove unsteadying. It was not even as if it would be offered to him with sufficient frequency for him to become accustomed to it. No; most assuredly the wine of sympathy was not for him.