The House of Mirth (Romance Classic). Edith WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
wish I knew—I wish I could make you out. Of course I know there are men who don’t like me—one can tell that at a glance. And there are others who are afraid of me: they think I want to marry them.” She smiled up at him frankly. “But I don’t think you dislike me—and you can’t possibly think I want to marry you.”
“No—I absolve you of that,” he agreed.
“Well, then–?”
He had carried his cup to the fireplace, and stood leaning against the chimney-piece and looking down on her with an air of indolent amusement. The provocation in her eyes increased his amusement—he had not supposed she would waste her powder on such small game; but perhaps she was only keeping her hand in; or perhaps a girl of her type had no conversation but of the personal kind. At any rate, she was amazingly pretty, and he had asked her to tea and must live up to his obligations.
“Well, then,” he said with a plunge, “perhaps THAT’S the reason.”
“What?”
“The fact that you don’t want to marry me. Perhaps I don’t regard it as such a strong inducement to go and see you.” He felt a slight shiver down his spine as he ventured this, but her laugh reassured him.
“Dear Mr. Selden, that wasn’t worthy of you. It’s stupid of you to make love to me, and it isn’t like you to be stupid.” She leaned back, sipping her tea with an air so enchantingly judicial that, if they had been in her aunt’s drawingroom, he might almost have tried to disprove her deduction.
“Don’t you see,” she continued, “that there are men enough to say pleasant things to me, and that what I want is a friend who won’t be afraid to say disagreeable ones when I need them? Sometimes I have fancied you might be that friend—I don’t know why, except that you are neither a prig nor a bounder, and that I shouldn’t have to pretend with you or be on my guard against you.” Her voice had dropped to a note of seriousness, and she sat gazing up at him with the troubled gravity of a child.
“You don’t know how much I need such a friend,” she said. “My aunt is full of copy-book axioms, but they were all meant to apply to conduct in the early fifties. I always feel that to live up to them would include wearing book-muslin with gigot sleeves. And the other women—my best friends—well, they use me or abuse me; but they don’t care a straw what happens to me. I’ve been about too long—people are getting tired of me; they are beginning to say I ought to marry.”
There was a moment’s pause, during which Selden meditated one or two replies calculated to add a momentary zest to the situation; but he rejected them in favour of the simple question: “Well, why don’t you?”
She coloured and laughed. “Ah, I see you ARE a friend after all, and that is one of the disagreeable things I was asking for.”
“It wasn’t meant to be disagreeable,” he returned amicably. “Isn’t marriage your vocation? Isn’t it what you’re all brought up for?”
She sighed. “I suppose so. What else is there?”
“Exactly. And so why not take the plunge and have it over?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “You speak as if I ought to marry the first man who came along.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you are as hard put to it as that. But there must be some one with the requisite qualifications.”
She shook her head wearily. “I threw away one or two good chances when I first came out—I suppose every girl does; and you know I am horribly poor—and very expensive. I must have a great deal of money.”
Selden had turned to reach for a cigarette-box on the mantelpiece.
“What’s become of Dillworth?” he asked.
“Oh, his mother was frightened—she was afraid I should have all the family jewels reset. And she wanted me to promise that I wouldn’t do over the drawingroom.”
“The very thing you are marrying for!”
“Exactly. So she packed him off to India.”
“Hard luck—but you can do better than Dillworth.”
He offered the box, and she took out three or four cigarettes, putting one between her lips and slipping the others into a little gold case attached to her long pearl chain.
“Have I time? Just a whiff, then.” She leaned forward, holding the tip of her cigarette to his. As she did so, he noted, with a purely impersonal enjoyment, how evenly the black lashes were set in her smooth white lids, and how the purplish shade beneath them melted into the pure pallour of the cheek.
She began to saunter about the room, examining the bookshelves between the puffs of her cigarette-smoke. Some of the volumes had the ripe tints of good tooling and old morocco, and her eyes lingered on them caressingly, not with the appreciation of the expert, but with the pleasure in agreeable tones and textures that was one of her inmost susceptibilities. Suddenly her expression changed from desultory enjoyment to active conjecture, and she turned to Selden with a question.
“You collect, don’t you—you know about first editions and things?”
“As much as a man may who has no money to spend. Now and then I pick up something in the rubbish heap; and I go and look on at the big sales.”
She had again addressed herself to the shelves, but her eyes now swept them inattentively, and he saw that she was preoccupied with a new idea.
“And Americana—do you collect Americana?”
Selden stared and laughed.
“No, that’s rather out of my line. I’m not really a collector, you see; I simply like to have good editions of the books I am fond of.”
She made a slight grimace. “And Americana are horribly dull, I suppose?”
“I should fancy so—except to the historian. But your real collector values a thing for its rarity. I don’t suppose the buyers of Americana sit up reading them all night—old Jefferson Gryce certainly didn’t.”
She was listening with keen attention. “And yet they fetch fabulous prices, don’t they? It seems so odd to want to pay a lot for an ugly badly-printed book that one is never going to read! And I suppose most of the owners of Americana are not historians either?”
“No; very few of the historians can afford to buy them. They have to use those in the public libraries or in private collections. It seems to be the mere rarity that attracts the average collector.”
He had seated himself on an arm of the chair near which she was standing, and she continued to question him, asking which were the rarest volumes, whether the Jefferson Gryce collection was really considered the finest in the world, and what was the largest price ever fetched by a single volume.
It was so pleasant to sit there looking up at her, as she lifted now one book and then another from the shelves, fluttering the pages between her fingers, while her drooping profile was outlined against the warm background of old bindings, that he talked on without pausing to wonder at her sudden interest in so unsuggestive a subject. But he could never be long with her without trying to find a reason for what she was doing, and as she replaced his first edition of La Bruyere and turned away from the bookcases, he began to ask himself what she had been driving at. Her next question was not of a nature to enlighten him. She paused before him with a smile which seemed at once designed to admit him to her familiarity, and to remind him of the restrictions it imposed.
“Don’t you ever mind,” she asked suddenly, “not being rich enough to buy all the books you want?”
He followed her glance about the room, with its worn furniture and shabby walls.
“Don’t I just? Do you take me for a saint on a pillar?”
“And having to work—do you mind that?”
“Oh, the work itself is not