The Golden Bowl Henry James (spicy books to read txt) đ
- Author: Henry James
Book online «The Golden Bowl Henry James (spicy books to read txt) đ». Author Henry James
It was to come soon enough by the quite unforced operation of chance, the young manâs opportunity to ask her the question suggested by Mrs. Assingham shortly before her entrance. The license, had he chosen to embrace it, was within a few minutes all thereâ âthe license given him literally to inquire of this young lady how long she was likely to be with them. For a matter of the mere domestic order had quickly determined, on Mrs. Assinghamâs part, a withdrawal, of a few moments, which had the effect of leaving her visitors free. âMrs. Bettermanâs there?â she had said to Charlotte in allusion to some member of the household who was to have received her and seen her belongings settled; to which Charlotte had replied that she had encountered only the butler, who had been quite charming. She had deprecated any action taken on behalf of her effects; but her hostess, rebounding from accumulated cushions, evidently saw more in Mrs. Bettermanâs nonappearance than could meet the casual eye. What she saw, in short, demanded her intervention, in spite of an earnest âLet me go!â from the girl, and a prolonged smiling wail over the trouble she was giving. The Prince was quite aware, at this moment, that departure, for himself, was indicated; the question of Miss Stantâs installation didnât demand his presence; it was a case for one to go awayâ âif one hadnât a reason for staying. He had a reason, howeverâ âof that he was equally aware; and he had not for a good while done anything more conscious and intentional than not, quickly, to take leave. His visible insistenceâ âfor it came to thatâ âeven demanded of him a certain disagreeable effort, the sort of effort he had mostly associated with acting for an idea. His idea was there, his idea was to find out something, something he wanted much to know, and to find it out not tomorrow, not at some future time, not in short with waiting and wondering, but if possible before quitting the place. This particular curiosity, moreover, confounded itself a little with the occasion offered him to satisfy Mrs. Assinghamâs own; he wouldnât have admitted that he was staying to ask a rude questionâ âthere was distinctly nothing rude in his having his reasons. It would be rude, for that matter, to turn oneâs back, without a word or two, on an old friend.
Well, as it came to pass, he got the word or two, for Mrs. Assinghamâs preoccupation was practically simplifying. The little crisis was of shorter duration than our account of it; duration, naturally, would have forced him to take up his hat. He was somehow glad, on finding himself alone with Charlotte, that he had not been guilty of that inconsequence. Not to be flurried was the kind of consistency he wanted, just as consistency was the kind of dignity. And why couldnât he have dignity when he had so much of the good conscience, as it were, on which such advantages rested? He had done nothing he oughtnâtâ âhe had in fact done nothing at all. Once more, as a man conscious of having known many women, he could assist, as he would have called it, at the recurrent, the predestined phenomenon, the thing always as certain as sunrise or the coming round of Saintsâ days, the doing by the woman of the thing that gave her away. She did it, ever, inevitably, infalliblyâ âshe couldnât possibly not do it. It was her nature, it was her life, and the man could always expect it without lifting a finger. This was his, the manâs, any manâs, position and strengthâ âthat he had necessarily the advantage, that he only had to wait, with a decent patience, to be placed, in spite of himself, it might really be said, in
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