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

he said. “There used to be Eureka Dress Fasteners. There’s lots of names, come to think of it, to be got out of a shop. There’s Pyjama Villa. I remember that in the hosiery. No, come to think, that wouldn’t do. But Maraposa⁠—sort of oatmeal cloth, that was.⁠ ⁠… No! Eureka’s better.”

Ann meditated. “It seems silly like to ’ave a name that don’t mean much.”

“Perhaps it does,” said Kipps. “Though it’s what people ’ave to do.”

He became meditative. “I got it!” he cried.

“Not Oreeka!” said Ann.

“No! There used to be a ’ouse at Hastings opposite our school⁠—quite a big ’ouse it was⁠—St. Ann’s. Now that⁠—”

“No,” said Mrs. Kipps with decision. “Thanking you kindly, but I don’t have no butcher boys making game of me.”⁠ ⁠…

They consulted Carshot, who suggested after some days of reflection, Waddycombe, as a graceful reminder of Kipps’ grandfather; Old Kipps, who was for “Upton Manor House,” where he had once been second footman; Buggins, who favoured either a stern simple number, “Number One”⁠—if there were no other houses there, or something patriotic, as “Empire Villa,” and Pierce, who inclined to “Sandringham”; but in spite of all this help they were still undecided when, amidst violent perturbations of the soul, and after the most complex and difficult hagglings, wranglings, fears, muddles and goings to and fro, Kipps became the joyless owner of a freehold plot of three-eighths of an acre, and saw the turf being wheeled away from the site that should one day be his home.

II The Callers

The Kippses sat at their midday dinner-table and amidst the vestiges of rhubarb pie, and discussed two postcards the one o’clock post had brought. It was a rare bright moment of sunshine in a wet and windy day in the March that followed their marriage. Kipps was attired in a suit of brown, with a tie of fashionable green, while Ann wore one of those picturesque loose robes that are usually associated with sandals and advanced ideas. But there weren’t any sandals on Ann or any advanced ideas, and the robe had come quite recently through the counsels of Mrs. Sid Pornick. “It’s Artlike,” said Kipps, giving way. “It’s more comfortable,” said Ann. The room looked out by French windows upon a little patch of green and the Hythe parade. The parade was all shiny wet with rain, and the green-grey sea tumbled and tumbled between parade and sky.

The Kipps’ furniture, except for certain chromo lithographs of Kipps’ incidental choice that struck a quiet note amidst the wall paper, had been tactfully forced by an expert salesman, and it was in a style of mediocre elegance. There was a sideboard of carved oak that had only one fault, it reminded Kipps at times of woodcarving, and its panel of bevelled glass now reflected the back of his head. On its shelf were two books from Parsons’ Library, each with a “place” marked by a slip of paper; neither of the Kippses could have told you the title of either book they read, much less the author’s name. There was an ebonised overmantel set with phials and pots of brilliant colour, each duplicated by looking-glass, and bearing also a pair of Chinese jars made in Birmingham, a wedding present from Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Pornick, and several sumptuous Japanese fans. And there was a Turkey carpet of great richness. In addition to these modern exploits of Messrs. Bunt and Bubble, there were two inactive tall clocks, whose extreme dilapidation appealed to the connoisseur; a terrestrial and a celestial globe, the latter deeply indented; a number of good old iron moulded and dusty books, and a stuffed owl wanting one (easily replaceable) glass eye, obtained by the exertions of Uncle Kipps. The table equipage was as much as possible like Mrs. Bindon Botting’s, only more costly, and in addition there were green and crimson wine glasses⁠—though the Kippses never drank wine.

Kipps turned to the more legible of his two postcards again.

“ ‘Unavoidably prevented from seein’ me today,’ ’e says. I like ’is cheek. After I give ’im ’is start and everything.”

He blew.

“ ’E certainly treats you a bit orf’and,” said Ann.

Kipps gave vent to his dislike of young Walshingham. “He’s getting too big for ’is britches,” he said. “I’m beginning to wish she ’ad brought an action for breach. Ever since ’e said she wouldn’t, ’e’s seemed to think I’ve got no right to spend my own money.”

“ ’E’s never liked your building the ’ouse,” said Ann.

Kipps displayed wrath. “What the goodness ’as it got to do wiv’ ’im?”

“Overman indeed!” he added. “Overmantel!⁠ ⁠… ’E trys that on with me, I’ll tell ’im something ’e won’t like.”

He took up the second card. “Dashed if I can read a word of it. I can jest make out Chit-low at the end and that’s all.”

He scrutinised it. “It’s like someone in a fit writing. This here might be W H A T⁠—what. P R I C E⁠—I got it! What price Harry now? It was a sort of saying of ’is. I expect ’e’s either done something or not done something towards starting that play, Ann.”

“I expect that’s about it,” said Ann.

Kipps grunted with effort. “I can’t read the rest,” he said at last, “nohow.”

A thoroughly annoying post. He pitched the card on the table, stood up and went to the window, where Ann, after a momentary reconnaisance at Chitterlow’s hieroglyphics, came to join him.

“Wonder what I shall do this afternoon,” said Kipps, with his hands deep in his pockets.

He produced and lit a cigarette.

“Go for a walk, I s’pose,” said Ann.

“I been for a walk this morning.

“S’pose I must go for another,” he added, after an interval.

They regarded the windy waste of sea for a space.

“Wonder why it is ’e won’t see me,” said Kipps, returning to the problem of young Walshingham. “It’s all lies about ’is being too busy.”

Ann offered no solution.

“Rain again!” said Kipps, as the lash of the little drops stung the window.

“Oo, bother!” said Kipps, “you got to do something. Look ’ere, Ann! I’ll go orf