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

know, and rather curious, the Reverend and Honourable.” Coote grew visibly in Kipps’ eyes as he said these things; he became, not only the exponent of “Vagner or Vargner,” the man whose sister had painted a picture to be exhibited at the Royal Academy, the type of the hidden thing called culture, but a delegate, as it were, or at least an intermediary from that great world “up there,” where there were men servants, where there were titles, where people dressed for dinner, drank wine at meals, wine costing very often as much as three and sixpence the bottle, and followed through a maze of etiquette, the most stupendous practices.⁠ ⁠…

Coote sat back in the armchair smoking luxuriously and expanding pleasantly, with the delightful sense of savoir faire; Kipps sat forward, his elbows on his chair arm alert, and his head a little on one side. You figure him as looking little and cheap and feeling smaller and cheaper amidst his new surroundings. But it was a most stimulating and interesting conversation. And soon it became less general and more serious and intimate. Coote spoke of people who had got on, and of people who hadn’t, of people who seemed to be in everything and people who seemed to be out of everything, and then he came round to Kipps.

“You’ll have a good time,” he said abruptly, with a smile that would have interested a dentist.

“I dunno,” said Kipps.

“There’s mistakes, of course.”

“That’s jest it.”

Coote lit a new cigarette. “One can’t help being interested in what you will do,” he remarked. “Of course⁠—for a young man of spirit, come suddenly into wealth⁠—there’s temptations.”

“I got to go careful,” said Kipps. “O’ Bean told me that at the very first.”

Coote went on to speak of pitfalls, of Betting, of Bad Companions. “I know,” said Kipps, “I know.” “There’s Doubt again,” said Coote. “I know a young fellow⁠—a solicitor⁠—handsome, gifted. And yet, you know⁠—utterly sceptical. Practically altogether a Sceptic.”

“Lor’!” said Kipps, “not a Natheist?”

“I fear so,” said Coote. “Really, you know, an awfully fine young fellow⁠—Gifted! But full of this dreadful Modern Spirit⁠—Cynical! All this Overman stuff. Nietzsche and all that.⁠ ⁠… I wish I could do something for him.”

“Ah!” said Kipps and knocked the ash off his cigarette. “I know a chap⁠—one of our apprentices he was⁠—once. Always scoffing.⁠ ⁠… He lef’!”

He paused. “Never wrote for his refs,” he said, in the deep tone proper to a moral tragedy, and then, after a pause⁠—“Enlisted!”

“Ah!” said Coote.

“And often,” he said, after a pause, “it’s just the most spirited chaps, just the chaps one likes best, who Go Wrong.”

“It’s temptation,” Kipps remarked.

He glanced at Coote, leant forward, knocked the ash from his cigarette into the mighty fender. “That’s jest it,” he said; “you get tempted. Before you know where you are.”

“Modern life,” said Coote, “is so⁠—complex. It isn’t everyone is Strong. Half the young fellows who go wrong, aren’t really bad.”

“That’s jest it,” said Kipps.

“One gets a tone from one’s surroundings⁠—”

“That’s exactly it,” said Kipps.

He meditated. “I picked up with a chap,” he said. “A Nacter. Leastways he writes plays. Clever fellow. But⁠—”

He implied extensive moral obloquy by a movement of his head. “Of course it’s seeing life,” he added.

Coote pretended to understand the full implications of Kipps’ remark. “Is it worth it?” he asked.

“That’s jest it,” said Kipps.

He decided to give some more. “One gets talking,” he said. “Then it’s ’ave a drink!’ Old Methusaleh four stars⁠—and where are you? I been drunk,” he said in a tone of profound humility, and added, “lots of times.”

“Tt. Tt.,” said Coote.

“Dozens of times,” said Kipps, smiling sadly, and added, “lately.”

His imagination became active and seductive. “One thing leads to another. Cards, p’raps. Girls⁠—”

“I know,” said Coote; “I know.”

Kipps regarded the fire and flushed slightly. He borrowed a sentence that Chitterlow had recently used. “One can’t tell tales out of school,” he said.

“I can imagine it,” said Coote.

Kipps looked with a confidential expression into Coote’s face. “It was bad enough when money was limited,” he remarked. “But now⁠—” He spoke with raised eyebrows, “I got to steady down.”

“You must,” said Coote, protruding his lips into a sort of whistling concern for a moment.

“I must,” said Kipps, nodding his head slowly with raised eyebrows. He looked at his cigarette end and threw it into the fender. He was beginning to think he was holding his own in this conversation rather well, after all.

Kipps was never a good liar. He was the first to break silence. “I don’t mean to say I been reely bad or reely bad drunk. A ’eadache perhaps⁠—three or four times, say. But there it is!”

“I have never tasted alcohol in my life,” said Coote, with an immense frankness, “never!”

“No?”

“Never. I don’t feel I should be likely to get drunk at all⁠—it isn’t that. And I don’t go so far as to say even that in small quantities⁠—at meals⁠—it does one harm. But if I take it, someone else who doesn’t know where to stop⁠—you see?”

“That’s jest it,” said Kipps, with admiring eyes.

“I smoke,” admitted Coote. “One doesn’t want to be a Pharisee.”

It struck Kipps what a tremendously Good chap this Coote was, not only tremendously clever and educated and a gentleman and one knowing Lady Punnet, but Good. He seemed to be giving all his time and thought to doing good things to other people. A great desire to confide certain things to him arose. At first Kipps hesitated whether he should confide an equal desire for Benevolent activities or for further Depravity⁠—either was in his mind. He rather affected the pose of the Good Intentioned Dog. Then suddenly his impulses took quite a different turn, fell indeed into what was a far more serious rut in his mind. It seemed to him Coote might be able to do for him something he very much wanted done.

“Companionship accounts for so much,” said Coote.

“That’s jest it,” said Kipps. “Of course, you know, in my new position⁠—. That’s just the difficulty.”

He plunged boldly at his most secret trouble. He