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

resolutely, went back to his own place, bearing in his arm (1) Sesame and Lilies, (2) Sir George Tressady, (3) an anonymous book on “Vitality” that Coote particularly esteemed. And, having got to his own sitting-room, he opened Sesame and Lilies and read it with ruthless determination for some time.

Presently he leant back and gave himself up to the business of trying to imagine just exactly what Miss Walshingham could have thought of him when she saw him. Doubts about the precise effect of the grey flannel suit began to trouble him. He turned to the mirror over the mantel, and then got into a chair to study the hang of the trousers. It looked all right. Luckily, she had not seen the Panama hat. He knew that he had the brim turned up wrong, but he could not find out which way the brim was right. However, that she had not seen. He might perhaps ask at the shop where he bought it.

He meditated for awhile on his reflected face⁠—doubtful whether he liked it or not⁠—and then got down again and flitted across to the sideboard where there lay two little books, one in a cheap, magnificent cover of red and gold, and the other in green canvas. The former was called, as its cover witnessed, Manners and Rules of Good Society, by a Member of the Aristocracy, and after the cover had indulged in a band of gilded decoration, lighthearted but natural under the circumstances, it added “Twenty-first Edition.” The second was that admirable classic, The Art of Conversing. Kipps returned with these to his seat, placed the two before him, opened the latter with a sigh and flattened it under his hand.

Then with knitted brows he began to read onward from a mark, his lips moving.

“Having thus acquired possession of an idea, the little ship should not be abruptly launched into deep waters, but should be first permitted to glide gently and smoothly into the shallows, that is to say, the conversation should not be commenced by broadly and roundly stating a fact, or didactically expressing an opinion, as the subject would be thus virtually or summarily disposed of, or perhaps be met with a ‘Really’ or ‘Indeed,’ or some equally brief monosyllabic reply. If an opposite opinion were held by the person to whom the remark were addressed, he might not, if a stranger, care to express it in the form of a direct contradiction, or actual dissent. To glide imperceptibly into conversation is the object to be attained.”

At this point Mr. Kipps rubbed his fingers through his hair with an expression of some perplexity and went back to the beginning.

When Kipps made his call on the Walshinghams, it all happened so differently from the Manners and Rules prescription (“Paying Calls”) that he was quite lost from the very outset. Instead of the footman or maidservant proper in these cases, Miss Walshingham opened the door to him herself. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said, with one of her rare smiles.

She stood aside for him to enter the rather narrow passage.

“I thought I’d call,” he said, retaining his hat and stick.

She closed the door and led the way to a little drawing-room, which impressed Kipps as being smaller and less emphatically coloured than that of the Cootes, and in which at first only a copper bowl of white poppies upon the brown tablecloth caught his particular attention.

“You won’t think it unconventional to come in, Mr. Kipps, will you?” she remarked. “Mother is out.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, smiling amiably, “if you don’t.”

She walked around the table and stood regarding him across it, with that same look between speculative curiosity and appreciation that he remembered from the last of the art class meetings.

“I wondered whether you would call or whether you wouldn’t before you left Folkestone.”

“I’m not leaving Folkestone for a bit, and any’ow, I should have called on you.”

“Mother will be sorry she was out. I’ve told her about you, and she wants, I know, to meet you.”

“I saw ’er⁠—if that was ’er⁠—in the shop,” said Kipps.

“Yes⁠—you did, didn’t you!⁠ ⁠… She has gone out to make some duty calls, and I didn’t go. I had something to write. I write a little, you know.”

“Reely!” said Kipps.

“It’s nothing much,” she said, “and it comes to nothing.” She glanced at a little desk near the window, on which there lay some paper. “One must do something.” She broke off abruptly. “Have you seen our outlook?” she asked and walked to the window, and Kipps came and stood beside her. “We look on the Square. It might be worse, you know. That outporter’s truck there is horrid⁠—and the railings, but it’s better than staring one’s social replica in the face, isn’t it? It’s pleasant in early spring⁠—bright green, laid on with a dry brush⁠—and it’s pleasant in autumn.”

“I like it,” said Kipps. “That laylock there is pretty, isn’t it?”

“Children come and pick it at times,” she remarked.

“I dessay they do,” said Kipps.

He rested on his hat and stick and looked appreciatively out of the window, and she glanced at him for one swift moment. A suggestion that might have come from the Art of Conversing came into his head. “Have you a garden?” he said.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Only a little one,” she said, and then, “perhaps you would like to see it.”

“I like gardenin’,” said Kipps, with memories of a pennyworth of nasturtiums he had once trained over his uncle’s dustbin.

She led the way with a certain relief.

They emerged through a four seasons coloured glass door to a little iron verandah that led by iron steps to a minute walled garden. There was just room for a patch of turf and a flowerbed; one sturdy variegated Euonymus grew in the corner. But the early June flowers, the big narcissus, snow upon the mountains, and a fine show of yellow wallflowers shone gay.

“That’s our garden,” said Helen. “It’s not a very big one, is it?”

“I