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

were not really committed to anything when the architect went away; Kipps had promised to think it over, that was all.

“We can’t ’ave that ’ouse,” said Ann.

“They’re miles too big⁠—all of them,” agreed Kipps.

“You’d want⁠—. Four servants wouldn’t be ’ardly enough,” said Ann.

Kipps went to the hearthrug and spread himself. His tone was almost offhand. “Nex’ time ’e comes,” said Kipps, “I’ll ’splain to him. It isn’t at all the sort of thing we want. It’s⁠—it’s a misunderstanding. You got no occasion to be anxious ’bout it, Ann.”

“I don’t see much good reely in building an ’ouse at all,” said Ann.

“Oo, we got to build a ’ouse now we begun,” said Kipps. “But, now, supposin’ we ’ad⁠—.”

He spread out the most modest of the three plans and scratched his cheek.

It was unfortunate that old Kipps came over the next day.

Old Kipps always produced peculiar states of mind in his nephew, a rash assertiveness, a disposition towards display unlike his usual self. There had been great difficulty in reconciling both these old people to the Pornick mésalliance, and at times the controversy echoed in old Kipps’ expressed thoughts. This perhaps it was, and no ignoble vanity, that set the note of florid successfulness going in Kipps’ conversation whenever his uncle appeared. Mrs. Kipps was, as a matter of fact, not reconciled at all, she had declined all invitations to come over on the bus, and was a taciturn hostess on the one occasion when the young people called at the toy shop en route for Mrs. Pornick. She displayed a tendency to sniff that was clearly due to pride rather than catarrh, and except for telling Ann she hoped she would not feel too “stuck up” about her marriage, confined her conversation to her nephew or the infinite. The call was a brief one and made up chiefly of pauses, no refreshment was offered or asked for, and Ann departed with a singularly high colour. For some reason she would not call at the toy shop when they found themselves again in New Romney.

But old Kipps, having adventured over and tried the table of the new ménage and found it to his taste, showed many signs of softening towards Ann. He came again and then again. He would come over by the bus, and except when his mouth was absolutely full, he would give his nephew one solid and continuous mass of advice of the most subtle and disturbing description, until it was time to toddle back to the High Street for the afternoon bus. He would walk with him to the sea front, and commence pourparlers with boatmen for the purchase of one of their boats. “You ought to keep a boat of your own,” he said, though Kipps was a singularly poor sailor⁠—or he would pursue a plan that was forming in his mind in which he should own and manage what he called “weekly” property in the less conspicuous streets of Hythe. The cream of that was to be a weekly collection of rents in person, the nearest approach to feudal splendour left in this democratised country. He gave no hint of the source of the capital he designed for this investment and at times it would appear he intended it as an occupation for his nephew rather than himself.

But there remained something in his manner towards Ann; in the glances of scrutiny he gave her unawares, that kept Kipps alertly expansive whenever he was about. And in all sorts of ways. It was on account of old Kipps, for example, that our Kipps plunged one day, a golden plunge, and brought home a box of cummerbundy ninepenny cigars, and substituted blue label old Methusaleh Four Stars for the common and generally satisfactory white brand.

“Some of this is whiskey, my boy,” said old Kipps when he tasted it, smacking critical lips.

“Saw a lot of young officer fellers coming along,” said old Kipps. “You ought to join the volunteers, my boy, and get to know a few.”

“I dessay I shall,” said Kipps. “Later.”

“They’d make you an officer, you know, ’n no time. They want officers,” said old Kipps. “It isn’t everyone can afford it. They’d be regular glad to ’ave you.⁠ ⁠… Ain’t bort a dog yet?”

“Not yet, uncle. ’Ave a segar?”

“Not a moty car?”

“Not yet, uncle.”

“There’s no ’urry ’bout that. And don’t get one of these ’ere trashy cheap ones when you do get it, my boy. Get one as’ll last a lifetime.⁠ ⁠… I’m surprised you don’t ’ire a bit more.”

“Ann don’t seem to fency a moty car,” said Kipps.

“Ah!” said old Kipps, “I expect not,” and glanced a comment at the door. “She ain’t used to going out,” he said. “More at ’ome indoors.”

“Fact is,” said Kipps, hastily, “we’re thinking of building a ’ouse.”

“I wouldn’t do that, my boy,” began old Kipps, but his nephew was routing in the cheffonier drawer amidst the plans. He got them in time to check some further comment on Ann. “Um,” said the old gentleman, a little impressed by the extraordinary odour and the unusual transparency of the tracing paper Kipps put into his hands. “Thinking of building a ’ouse, are you?”

Kipps began with the most modest of the three projects.

Old Kipps read slowly through his silver-rimmed spectacles: “Plan of a ’ouse for Arthur Kipps Esquire⁠—Um.”

He didn’t warm to the project all at once, and Ann drifted into the room to find him still scrutinising the architect’s proposals a little doubtfully.

“We couldn’t find a decent ’ouse anywhere,” said Kipps, leaning against the table and assuming an offhand note. “I didn’t see why we shouldn’t run up one for ourselves.” Old Kipps could not help liking the tone of that.

“We thought we might see⁠—” said Ann.

“It’s a spekerlation, of course,” said old Kipps, and held the plan at a distance of two feet or more from his glasses and frowned. “This isn’t exactly the ’ouse I should expect you to ’ave thought of, though,” he said. “Practically it’s a villa. It’s the sort of ’ouse