Read Online 65 Short Stories by W. Somerset Maugham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: W. Somerset Maugham
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here than in your South Sea island,’ laughed Mr Hunter. Did you like it there?’
‘Give me Chicago, dad,’ answered Bateman.
‘You haven’t brought Edward Barnard back with you.’
‘No.’
‘How was he?’
Bateman was silent for a moment, and his handsome, sensitive face darkened. ‘I’d sooner not speak about him, dad,’ he said at last.
‘That’s all right, my son. I guess your mother will be a happy woman today.’ They passed out of the crowded streets in the Loop and drove along the lake till they came to the imposing house, an exact copy of a chateau on the Loire, which Mr Hunter had built himself some years before. As soon as Bateman was alone in his room he asked for a number on the telephone. His heart leaped when he heard the voice that answered him.
‘Good morning, Isabel,’ he said gaily.
‘Good morning, Bateman.’
‘How did you recognize my voice?’
‘It is not so long since I heard it last. Besides, I was expecting you.’
‘When may I see you?’
‘Unless you have anything better to do perhaps you’ll dine with us tonight.’
‘You know very well that I couldn’t possibly have anything better to do.’
‘I suppose that you’re full of news?’
He thought he detected in her voice a note of apprehension.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Well, you must tell me tonight. Good-bye.’
She rang off It was characteristic of her that she should be able to wait so many unnecessary hours to know what so immensely concerned her. To Bateman there was an admirable fortitude in her restraint.
At dinner, at which beside himself and Isabel no one was present but her father and mother, he watched her guide the conversation into the channels of an urbane small-talk, and it occurred to him that in just such a manner would a marquise under the shadow of the guillotine toy with the affairs of a day that would know no morrow Her delicate features, the aristocratic shortness of her upper lip, and her wealth of fair hair suggested the marquise again, and it must have been obvious, even if it were not notorious, that in her veins flowed the best blood in Chicago. The dining-room was a fitting frame to her fragile beauty, for Isabel had caused the house, a replica of a palace on the Grand Canal at Venice, to be furnished by an English expert in the style of Louis XV; and the graceful decoration linked with the name of that amorous monarch enhanced her loveliness and at the same time acquired from it a more profound significance. For Isabel’s mind was richly stored, and her conversation, however light, was never flippant. She spoke now of the Musicale to which she and her mother had been in the afternoon, of the lectures which an English poet was giving at the Auditorium, of the political situation, and of the Old Master which her father had recently bought for fifty thousand dollars in New York. It comforted Bateman to hear her. He felt that he was once more in the civilized world, at the centre of culture and distinction; and certain voices, troubling and yet against his will refusing to still their clamour, were at last silent in his heart.
‘Gee, but it’s good to be back in Chicago,’ he said.
At last dinner was over, and when they went out of the dining-room Isabel said to her mother:
‘I’m going to take Bateman along to my den. We have various things to talk about.’
‘Very well, my dear,’ said Mrs Longstaffe. ‘You’ll find your father and me in the Madame du Barry room when you’re through.’
Isabel led the young man upstairs and showed him into the room of which he had so many charming memories. Though he knew it so well he could not repress the exclamation of delight which it always wrung from him. She looked round with a smile.
‘I think it’s a success,’ she said. ‘The main thing is that it’s right. There’s not even an ash-tray that isn’t of the period.’
‘I suppose that’s what makes it so wonderful. Like all you do it’s so superlatively right.’
They sat down in front
‘Give me Chicago, dad,’ answered Bateman.
‘You haven’t brought Edward Barnard back with you.’
‘No.’
‘How was he?’
Bateman was silent for a moment, and his handsome, sensitive face darkened. ‘I’d sooner not speak about him, dad,’ he said at last.
‘That’s all right, my son. I guess your mother will be a happy woman today.’ They passed out of the crowded streets in the Loop and drove along the lake till they came to the imposing house, an exact copy of a chateau on the Loire, which Mr Hunter had built himself some years before. As soon as Bateman was alone in his room he asked for a number on the telephone. His heart leaped when he heard the voice that answered him.
‘Good morning, Isabel,’ he said gaily.
‘Good morning, Bateman.’
‘How did you recognize my voice?’
‘It is not so long since I heard it last. Besides, I was expecting you.’
‘When may I see you?’
‘Unless you have anything better to do perhaps you’ll dine with us tonight.’
‘You know very well that I couldn’t possibly have anything better to do.’
‘I suppose that you’re full of news?’
He thought he detected in her voice a note of apprehension.
‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘Well, you must tell me tonight. Good-bye.’
She rang off It was characteristic of her that she should be able to wait so many unnecessary hours to know what so immensely concerned her. To Bateman there was an admirable fortitude in her restraint.
At dinner, at which beside himself and Isabel no one was present but her father and mother, he watched her guide the conversation into the channels of an urbane small-talk, and it occurred to him that in just such a manner would a marquise under the shadow of the guillotine toy with the affairs of a day that would know no morrow Her delicate features, the aristocratic shortness of her upper lip, and her wealth of fair hair suggested the marquise again, and it must have been obvious, even if it were not notorious, that in her veins flowed the best blood in Chicago. The dining-room was a fitting frame to her fragile beauty, for Isabel had caused the house, a replica of a palace on the Grand Canal at Venice, to be furnished by an English expert in the style of Louis XV; and the graceful decoration linked with the name of that amorous monarch enhanced her loveliness and at the same time acquired from it a more profound significance. For Isabel’s mind was richly stored, and her conversation, however light, was never flippant. She spoke now of the Musicale to which she and her mother had been in the afternoon, of the lectures which an English poet was giving at the Auditorium, of the political situation, and of the Old Master which her father had recently bought for fifty thousand dollars in New York. It comforted Bateman to hear her. He felt that he was once more in the civilized world, at the centre of culture and distinction; and certain voices, troubling and yet against his will refusing to still their clamour, were at last silent in his heart.
‘Gee, but it’s good to be back in Chicago,’ he said.
At last dinner was over, and when they went out of the dining-room Isabel said to her mother:
‘I’m going to take Bateman along to my den. We have various things to talk about.’
‘Very well, my dear,’ said Mrs Longstaffe. ‘You’ll find your father and me in the Madame du Barry room when you’re through.’
Isabel led the young man upstairs and showed him into the room of which he had so many charming memories. Though he knew it so well he could not repress the exclamation of delight which it always wrung from him. She looked round with a smile.
‘I think it’s a success,’ she said. ‘The main thing is that it’s right. There’s not even an ash-tray that isn’t of the period.’
‘I suppose that’s what makes it so wonderful. Like all you do it’s so superlatively right.’
They sat down in front
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