Read Online The Reverberator by Henry James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Henry James
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“Ain’t I interested, father?”
“Well, I don’t know how you could act differently, to show it.”
“Well, I do then,” said Delia. “And if you don’t make Mr. Flack understand I will.”
“Oh, I guess he understands—he’s so bright,” Francie returned.
“Yes, I guess he does—he
is
bright,” said Mr. Dosson. “Good-night, chickens,” he added; and wandered off to a couch of untroubled repose.
His daughters sat up half an hour later, but not by the wish of the younger girl. She was always passive however, always docile when Delia was, as she said, on the warpath, and though she had none of her sister’s insistence she was very courageous in suffering. She thought Delia whipped her up too much, but there was that in her which would have prevented her from ever running away. She could smile and smile for an hour without irritation, making even pacific answers, though all the while her companion’s grossness hurt something delicate that was in her. She knew that Delia loved her—not loving herself meanwhile a bit—as no one else in the world probablyever would; and there was something droll in such plans for her—plans of ambition which could only involve a loss. The real answer to anything, to everything Delia might say in her moods of prefigurement was—“Oh, if you want to make out that people are thinking of me or that they ever will, you ought to remember that no one can possibly think of me half as much as you do. Therefore if there is to be any comfort for either of us we had both much better just go on as we are.” She did not however on this occasion, meet her sister with this syllogism, because there happened to be a certain fascination in the way Delia set forth the great truth that the star of matrimony, for the American girl, was now shining in the east—in England and France and Italy. They had only to look round anywhere to see it: what did they hear of every day in the week but of the engagement of one of their own compeers to some count or some lord? Delia insisted on the fact that it was in that vast, vague section of the globe to which she never alluded save as “over here” that the American girl was now called upon to play, under providence, her part. When Francie remarked that Mr. Probert was not a count nor a lord her sister rejoined that she didn’t care whether he was or not. To this Francie replied that she herself didn’t care but that Delia ought to, to be consistent.
“Well, he’s a prince compared with Mr. Flack,” Delia declared.
“He hasn’t the same ability; not half.”
“He has the ability to have three sisters who are just the sort of people I want you to know.”
“What good will they do me?” Francie asked. “They’ll hate me. Before they could turn round I should dosomething—in perfect innocence—that they would think monstrous.”
“Well, what would that matter if
he
liked you?”
“Oh, but he wouldn’t, then! He would hate me too.”
“Then all you’ve got to do is not to do it,” Delia said.
“Oh, but I should—every time,” her sister went on.
Delia looked at her a moment. “What
are
you talking about?”
“Yes, what am I? It’s disgusting!” And Francie sprang up.
“I’m sorry you have such thoughts,” said Delia, sententiously.
“It’s disgusting to talk about a gentleman—and his sisters and his society and everything else—before he has scarcely looked at you.”
“It’s disgusting if he isn’t just dying; but it isn’t if he is.”
“Well, I’ll make him skip!” Francie went on.
“Oh, you’re worse than father!” her sister cried, giving her a push as they went to bed.
They reached Saint-Germain with their companions nearly an hour before the time that had been fixed for dinner; the purpose of this being to enable them to enjoy with what remained of daylight—a stroll on the celebrated terrace and a study of the magnificent view. The evening was splendid and the atmosphere favourable
“Well, I don’t know how you could act differently, to show it.”
“Well, I do then,” said Delia. “And if you don’t make Mr. Flack understand I will.”
“Oh, I guess he understands—he’s so bright,” Francie returned.
“Yes, I guess he does—he
is
bright,” said Mr. Dosson. “Good-night, chickens,” he added; and wandered off to a couch of untroubled repose.
His daughters sat up half an hour later, but not by the wish of the younger girl. She was always passive however, always docile when Delia was, as she said, on the warpath, and though she had none of her sister’s insistence she was very courageous in suffering. She thought Delia whipped her up too much, but there was that in her which would have prevented her from ever running away. She could smile and smile for an hour without irritation, making even pacific answers, though all the while her companion’s grossness hurt something delicate that was in her. She knew that Delia loved her—not loving herself meanwhile a bit—as no one else in the world probablyever would; and there was something droll in such plans for her—plans of ambition which could only involve a loss. The real answer to anything, to everything Delia might say in her moods of prefigurement was—“Oh, if you want to make out that people are thinking of me or that they ever will, you ought to remember that no one can possibly think of me half as much as you do. Therefore if there is to be any comfort for either of us we had both much better just go on as we are.” She did not however on this occasion, meet her sister with this syllogism, because there happened to be a certain fascination in the way Delia set forth the great truth that the star of matrimony, for the American girl, was now shining in the east—in England and France and Italy. They had only to look round anywhere to see it: what did they hear of every day in the week but of the engagement of one of their own compeers to some count or some lord? Delia insisted on the fact that it was in that vast, vague section of the globe to which she never alluded save as “over here” that the American girl was now called upon to play, under providence, her part. When Francie remarked that Mr. Probert was not a count nor a lord her sister rejoined that she didn’t care whether he was or not. To this Francie replied that she herself didn’t care but that Delia ought to, to be consistent.
“Well, he’s a prince compared with Mr. Flack,” Delia declared.
“He hasn’t the same ability; not half.”
“He has the ability to have three sisters who are just the sort of people I want you to know.”
“What good will they do me?” Francie asked. “They’ll hate me. Before they could turn round I should dosomething—in perfect innocence—that they would think monstrous.”
“Well, what would that matter if
he
liked you?”
“Oh, but he wouldn’t, then! He would hate me too.”
“Then all you’ve got to do is not to do it,” Delia said.
“Oh, but I should—every time,” her sister went on.
Delia looked at her a moment. “What
are
you talking about?”
“Yes, what am I? It’s disgusting!” And Francie sprang up.
“I’m sorry you have such thoughts,” said Delia, sententiously.
“It’s disgusting to talk about a gentleman—and his sisters and his society and everything else—before he has scarcely looked at you.”
“It’s disgusting if he isn’t just dying; but it isn’t if he is.”
“Well, I’ll make him skip!” Francie went on.
“Oh, you’re worse than father!” her sister cried, giving her a push as they went to bed.
They reached Saint-Germain with their companions nearly an hour before the time that had been fixed for dinner; the purpose of this being to enable them to enjoy with what remained of daylight—a stroll on the celebrated terrace and a study of the magnificent view. The evening was splendid and the atmosphere favourable
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