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
âWell, now I must tell you, for I want to be absolutely honest.â So Charlotte spoke, a little ominously, after they had got into the Park. âI donât want to pretend, and I canât pretend a moment longer. You may think of me what you will, but I donât care. I knew I shouldnât and I find now how little. I came back for this. Not really for anything else. For this,â she repeated as, under the influence of her tone, the Prince had already come to a pause.
âFor âthisâ?â He spoke as if the particular thing she indicated were vague to himâ âor were, rather, a quantity that couldnât, at the most, be much.
It would be as much, however, as she should be able to make it. âTo have one hour alone with you.â It had rained heavily in the night, and though the pavements were now dry, thanks to a cleansing breeze, the August morning, with its hovering, thick-drifting clouds and freshened air, was cool and grey. The multitudinous green of the Park had been deepened, and a wholesome smell of irrigation, purging the place of dust and of odours less acceptable, rose from the earth. Charlotte had looked about her, with expression, from the first of their coming in, quite as if for a deep greeting, for general recognition: the day was, even in the heart of London, of a rich, low-browed, weatherwashed English type. It was as if it had been waiting for her, as if she knew it, placed it, loved it, as if it were in fact a part of what she had come back for. So far as this was the case the impression of course could only be lost on a mere vague Italian; it was one of those for which you had to be, blessedly, an Americanâ âas indeed you had to be, blessedly, an American for all sorts of things: so long as you hadnât, blessedly or not, to remain in America. The Prince had, by half-past tenâ âas also by definite appointmentâ âcalled in Cadogan Place for Mrs. Assinghamâs visitor, and then, after brief delay, the two had walked together up Sloane Street and got straight into the Park from Knightsbridge. The understanding to this end had taken its place, after a couple of days, as inevitably consequent on the appeal made by the girl during those first moments in Mrs. Assinghamâs drawing-room. It was an appeal the couple of days had done nothing to invalidateâ âeverything, much rather, to place in a light, and as to which, obviously, it wouldnât have fitted that anyone should raise an objection. Who was there, for that matter, to raise one, from the moment Mrs. Assingham, informed and apparently not disapproving, didnât intervene? This the young man had asked himselfâ âwith a very sufficient sense of what would have made him ridiculous. He wasnât going to beginâ âthat at least was certainâ âby showing a fear. Even had fear at first been sharp in him, moreover, it would already, not a little, have dropped; so happy, all round, so propitious, he quite might have called it, had been the effect of this rapid interval.
The time had been taken up largely by his active reception of his own wedding-guests and by Maggieâs scarce less absorbed entertainment of her friend, whom she had kept for hours together in Portland Place; whom she had not, as wouldnât have been convenient, invited altogether as yet to migrate, but who had been present, with other persons, his contingent, at luncheon, at tea, at dinner, at perpetual repastsâ âhe had never in his life, it struck him, had to reckon with so much eatingâ âwhenever he had looked in. If he had not again, till this hour, save for a minute, seen Charlotte alone, so, positively, all the while, he had not seen even Maggie; and if, therefore, he had not seen even Maggie, nothing was more natural than that he shouldnât have seen Charlotte. The exceptional minute, a mere snatch, at the tail of the others, on the huge Portland Place staircase had sufficiently enabled the girl to remind himâ âso ready she assumed him to beâ âof what they were to do. Time pressed if they were to do it at all. Everyone had brought gifts; his relations had brought wondersâ âhow did they still have, where did they still find, such treasures? She only had brought nothing, and she was ashamed; yet even by the sight of the rest of the tribute she wouldnât be put off. She would do what she could, and he was, unknown to Maggie, he must remember, to give her his aid. He had prolonged the minute so far as to take time to hesitate, for a reason, and then to risk bringing his reason out. The risk was because he might hurt herâ âhurt her pride, if she had that particular sort. But she might as well be hurt one way as another; and, besides, that particular sort of pride was just what she hadnât. So his slight resistance, while they lingered, had been just easy enough not to be impossible.
âI hate to encourage youâ âand for such a purpose, after allâ âto spend your money.â
She had stood a stair or two below him; where, while she looked up at him beneath the high, domed light of the hall, she rubbed with her palm the polished mahogany of the balustrade, which was mounted on fine ironwork, eighteenth-century English. âBecause you think I must have so little? Iâve enough, at any rateâ âenough for us to take our hour. Enough,â she had smiled, âis as good as a feast! And then,â she had said, âit isnât of course a question of anything expensive, gorged with treasure as Maggie is; it isnât a question of competing or outshining. What, naturally, in the way of the priceless, hasnât she got? Mine is
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