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

envelope bearing the mystic words, “On His Majesty’s Service,” a number or so of the “Bookman,” and a box of cigarettes were lying. A table under the window bore a little microscope, some dust in a saucer, some grimy glass slips and broken cover glasses, for Coote had “gone in for” biology a little. The longer side of the room was given over to bookshelves, neatly edged with pinked American cloth, and with an array of books⁠—no worse an array of books than you find in any public library; an almost haphazard accumulation of obsolete classics, contemporary successes, the Hundred Best Books (including Samuel Warren’s Ten Thousand a Year) old school books, directories, the Times Atlas, Ruskin in bulk, Tennyson complete in one volume, Longfellow, Charles Kingsley, Smiles and Mrs. Humphry Ward, a guide book or so, several medical pamphlets, odd magazine numbers, and much indescribable rubbish⁠—in fact a compendium of the contemporary British mind. And in front of this array stood Kipps, ill-taught and untrained, respectful, awestricken and, for a moment at any rate, willing to learn, while Coote, the exemplary Coote, talked to him like a bishop of reading and the virtue in books.

“Nothing enlarges the mind,” said Coote, “like Travel and Books.⁠ ⁠… And they’re both so easy nowadays, and so cheap!”

“I’ve often wanted to ’ave a good go in at reading,” Kipps replied.

“You’d hardly believe,” Coote said, “how much you can get out of books. Provided you avoid trashy reading, that is. You ought to make a rule, Kipps, and read one Serious Book a week. Of course, we can Learn even from Novels, Nace Novels that is, but it isn’t the same thing as serious reading. I made a rule, One Serious Book and One Novel⁠—no more. There’s some of the serious books I’ve been reading lately⁠—on that table; Sartor Resartus⁠—Mrs. Twaddletome’s Pond Life, the Scottish Chiefs, Life and Letters of Dean Farrar.⁠ ⁠…”

There came at last the sound of a gong and Kipps descended to tea in that state of nervous apprehension at the difficulties of eating and drinking that his Aunt’s knuckle rappings had implanted in him forever. Over Coote’s shoulder he became aware of a fourth person in the Moorish cosy corner, and he turned, leaving incomplete something incoherent he was saying to Miss Coote about his modest respect and desire for literature to discover this fourth person was Miss Helen Walshingham, hatless and looking very much at home.

She rose at once with an extended hand to meet his hesitation.

“You’re stopping in Folkestone, Mr. Kipps?”

“ ’Ere on a bit of business,” said Kipps. “I thought you was away in Bruges.”

“That’s later,” said Miss Walshingham. “We’re stopping until my brother’s holiday begins and we’re trying to let our house. Where are you staying in Folkestone?”

“I got a ’ouse of mine⁠—on the Leas.”

“I’ve heard all about your good fortune⁠—this afternoon.”

“Isn’t it a Go!” said Kips. “I ’aven’t nearly got to believe its reely ’appened yet. When that Mr. Bean told me of it you could ’ave knocked me down with a feather.⁠ ⁠… It’s a tremenjous change for me.”

He discovered Miss Coote was asking him whether he took milk and sugar. “I don’t mind,” said Kipps. “Just as you like.”

Coote became active handing tea and bread and butter. It was thinly cut, and the bread was rather new, and the half of the slice that Kipps took fell upon the floor. He had been holding it by the edge, for he was not used to this migratory method of taking tea without plates or table. This little incident ruled him out of the conversation for a time, and when he came to attend to it again they were talking about something or other prodigious⁠—a performer of some sort⁠—that was coming, called, it seemed, “Padrooski.” So Kipps, who had quietly dropped into a chair, ate his bread and butter, said “No, thenk you” to any more, and by this discreet restraint got more freedom with his cup and saucer.

Apart from the confusion natural to tea, he was in a state of tremulous excitement on account of the presence of Miss Walshingham. He glanced from Miss Coote to her brother and then at Helen. He regarded her over the top of his cup as he drank. Here she was, solid and real. It was wonderful. He remarked, as he had done at times before, the easy flow of the dark hair back from her brow over her ears, the shapeliness of the white hands that came out from her simple white cuffs, the delicate pencilling of her brow.

Presently she turned her face to him almost suddenly, and smiled with the easiest assurance of friendship.

“You will go, I suppose,” she said, and added, “to the Recital.”

“If I’m in Folkestone I shall,” said Kipps, clearing away a little hoarseness. “I don’t know much about music, but what I do know I like.”

“I’m sure you’ll like Paderewski,” she said.

“If you do,” he said, “I dessay I shall.”

He found Coote very kindly taking his cup.

“Do you think of living in Folkestone?” asked Miss Coote, in a tone of proprietorship, from the hearthrug.

“No,” said Kipps, “that’s jest it⁠—I hardly know.” He also said that he wanted to look around a bit before doing anything. “There’s so much to consider,” said Coote, smoothing the back of his head.

“I may go back to New Romney for a bit,” said Kipps. “I got an Uncle and Aunt there. I reely don’t know.”

Helen regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.

“You must come and see us,” she said, “before we go to Bruges.”

“Oo, rather!” said Kipps. “If I may.”

“Yes, do,” she said, and suddenly stood up before Kipps could formulate an enquiry when he should call.

“You’re sure you can spare that drawing board?” she said to Miss Coote, and the conversation passed out of range.

And when he had said “Goodbye” to Miss Walshingham and she had repeated her invitation to call, he went upstairs again with Coote to look out certain initiatory books they had had under discussion. And then Kipps, blowing very