Kipps H. G. Wells (best thriller novels to read .txt) 📖

silence, Kipps being chiefly concerned to affect ease in his new clothes and keeping a wary eye on Coote. “It’s rather a big windfall,” said Coote presently. “It yields you an income⁠—?”

“Twelve ’undred a year,” said Kipps. “Bit over⁠—if anything.”

“Do you think of living in Folkestone?”

“Don’t know ’ardly yet. I may. Then again, I may not. I got a furnished ’ouse, but I may let it.”

“Your plans are undecided?”

“That’s jest it,” said Kipps.

“Very beautiful sunset it was tonight,” said Coote, and Kipps said, “Wasn’t it?” and they began to talk of the merits of sunsets. Did Kipps paint? Not since he was a boy. He didn’t believe he could now. Coote said his sister was a painter and Kipps received this intimation with respect. Coote sometimes wished he could find time to paint himself⁠—but one couldn’t do everything and Kipps said that was “jest it.”

They came out presently upon the end of the Leas and looked down to where the squat dark masses of the Harbour and Harbour Station, gemmed with pinpoint lights, crouched against the twilit grey of the sea. “If one could do that,” said Coote, and Kipps was inspired to throw his head back, cock it on one side, regard the Harbour with one eye shut and say that it would take some doing. Then Coote said something about “Abend,” which Kipps judged to be in a foreign language and got over by lighting another cigarette from his by no means completed first one. “You’re right, puff, puff.”

He felt that so far he had held up his end of the conversation in a very creditable manner, but that extreme discretion was advisable.

They turned away and Coote remarked that the sea was good for crossing, and asked Kipps if he had been over the water very much. Kipps said he hadn’t been⁠—“much,” but he thought very likely he’d have a run over to Boulogne soon, and Coote proceeded to talk of the charms of foreign travel, mentioning quite a number of unheard-of places by name. He had been to them! Kipps remained on the defensive, but behind his defences his heart sank. It was all very well to pretend, but presently it was bound to come out. He didn’t know anything of all this.⁠ ⁠…

So they drew near the house. At his own gate Kipps became extremely nervous. It was a fine, impressive door. He knocked neither a single knock nor a double, but about one and a half⁠—an apologetic half. They were admitted by an irreproachable housemaid, with a steady eye, before which Kipps cringed dreadfully. He hung up his hat and fell about over hall chairs and things. “There’s a fire in the study, Mary?” he had the audacity to ask, though evidently he knew, and led the way upstairs panting. He tried to shut the door and discovered the housemaid behind him coming to light his lamp. This enfeebled him further. He said nothing until the door closed behind her. Meanwhile to show his sangfroid he hummed and flitted towards the window, and here and there.

Coote went to the big hearthrug and turned and surveyed his host. His hand went to the back of his head and patted his occiput⁠—a gesture frequent with him.

“ ’Ere we are,” said Kipps, hands in his pockets and glancing round him.

It was a gaunt Victorian room, with a heavy, dirty cornice, and the ceiling enriched by the radiant plaster ornament of an obliterated gas chandelier. It held two large glass fronted bookcases, one of which was surmounted by a stuffed terrier encased in glass. There was a mirror over the mantel and hangings and curtains of magnificent crimson patternings. On the mantel were a huge black clock of classical design, vases in the Burslem Etruscan style, spills and toothpicks in large receptacles of carved rock, large lava ash trays and an exceptionally big box of matches. The fender was very great and brassy. In a favourable position, under the window, was a spacious rosewood writing desk, and all the chairs and other furniture were of rosewood and well stuffed.

“This,” said Kipps, in something near an undertone, “was the o’ gentleman’s study⁠—my grandfather that was. ’E used to sit at that desk and write.”

“Books?”

“No. Letters to the Times, and things like that. ’E’s got ’em all cut out⁠—stuck in a book.⁠ ⁠… Leastways, he ’ad. It’s in that bookcase.⁠ ⁠… Won’t you sit down?”

Coote did, bowing very slightly, and Kipps secured his vacated position on the extensive black skin rug. He spread out his legs compass-fashion and tried to appear at his ease. The rug, the fender, the mantel and mirror conspired with great success to make him look a trivial and intrusive little creature amidst their commonplace hauteur, and his own shadow on the opposite wall seemed to think everything a great lark and mocked and made tremendous fun of him.⁠ ⁠…

For a space Kipps played a defensive game and Coote drew the lines of the conversation. They kept away from the theme of Kipps’ change of fortune, and Coote made remarks upon local and social affairs. “You must take an interest in these things now,” was as much as he said in the way of personalities. But it speedily became evident that he was a person of wide and commanding social relationships. He spoke of “society” being mixed in the neighbourhood and of the difficulty of getting people to work together, and “do” things; they were cliquish. Incidentally he alluded quite familiarly to men with military titles, and once even to someone with a title, a Lady Punnet. Not snobbishly, you understand, nor deliberately, but quite in passing. He had, it appeared, talked to Lady Punnet about private theatricals! In connection with the Hospitals. She had been unreasonable and he had put her right, gently of course, but firmly. “If you stand up to these people,” said Coote, “they like you all the better.” It was also very evident he was at his ease with the clergy; “My friend, Mr. Densemore⁠—a curate, you