Пробный камень

IV

           

           Glennardtookthebookwithsuddeneagerness.“WhowasMadameCommanville?”

           “Hissister.”HewasconsciousthatFlamelwaslookingathimwiththesmilethatwaslikeaninterrogationpoint.“Ididn’tknowyoucaredforthiskindofthing.”

           “Idon’t—atleastI’veneverhadthechance.Haveyoumanycollectionsofletters?”

           “Lord,no—veryfew.I’mjustbeginning,andmostoftheinterestingonesareoutofmyreach.Here’saqueerlittlecollection,though—therarestthingI’vegot—halfadozenofShelley’sletterstoHarrietWestbrook.Ihadadevilofatimegettingthem—alotofcollectorswereafterthem.”

           Glennard,takingthevolumefromhishand,glancedwithakindofrepugnanceattheinterleavingofyellowcris-crossedsheets.“Shewastheonewhodrownedherself,wasn’tshe?”

           Flamelnodded.“Isupposethatlittleepisodeaddsaboutfiftypercent.totheirvalue,”hesaid,meditatively.

           Glennardlaidthebookdown.HewonderedwhyhehadjoinedFlamel.Hewasinnohumortobeamusedbytheolderman’stalk,andarecrudescenceofpersonalmiseryroseabouthimlikeanicytide.

           “IbelieveImusttakemyselfoff,”hesaid.“I’dforgottenanengagement.”

           Heturnedtogo;butalmostatthesamemomenthewasconsciousofadualityofintentionwhereinhisapparentwishtoleaverevealeditselfasalasteffortofthewillagainsttheovermasteringdesiretostayandunbosomhimselftoFlamel.

           Theolderman,asthoughdiviningtheconflict,laidadetainingpressureonhisarm.

           “Won’ttheengagementkeep?Sitdownandtryoneofthesecigars.

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