James Hilton: Collected Novels Read Online Free PDF

Winslow’s voice grew almost pathetically eager. “And you will help me, won’t you—now that you know how it is? What I had in mind was this—if you agreed—that we go out there together—quite soon—immediately, in fact—before there can be any open scandal involving him—you see what I mean?”
    “Aye, I see what you mean.”
    “And you agree?”
    To which George retorted with sudden sharpness: “Why not, for God’s sake? He may be your son, but she’s my wife too. Don’t you think I’m interested?”
    “Of course. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I—I—”
    “Now, now, don’t apologize. Come to that, we’ve neither of us much to apologize for.”
    “I thought we might leave tomorrow—”
    “Aye, if we’re going, might as well—”
    “Boswell, I can’t tell you how much I—”
    “None o’ that either, man. Let’s get down to some details. I’ll need a passport—”
    And somehow from then on, in spite of what might have been held more humiliating for George than for Winslow in the situation, it was nevertheless George who took the leadership, a certain staunch four-squareness in his make-up easily dominating the other. They both belonged to a world in which the accomplishment of any suddenly urgent task requires the canceling or postponement of other less urgent ones; and now, as they eased themselves back into chairs, there was nothing left but such routine adjustments. Winslow pulled out a little black notebook and began crossing off this and that; George reached for a sheet of paper on his desk and jotted down a few memoranda. Into the momentary silence there came the distant chiming of the hour on Browdley church clock, and a newsboy shouting familiarly but incoherently along Market Street. Good news, perhaps, about the international situation…but it did not seem to matter so much now, so quickly can world affairs be over-shadowed by personal ones in the life of even the most public man.
    Winslow looked up. “You’re optimistic, Boswell? From your own knowledge of her—do you feel that—that somehow or other you’ll be able to persuade her to—to”
    George’s face was haggard as he replied: “I wouldn’t call my own knowledge so very reliable—not after this.”
    “Then perhaps you could talk to my son—try to influence him—”
    “Aren’t you the one for that?”
    “But a new angle, Boswell— your point of view in the matter—he may not have realized—”
    “All right, all right—no good badgering me.” The first shock had been succeeded by anger—helpless anger, which Winslow’s concern for his own son merely exacerbated. “I’m damned if I know what I’ll do— yet. ”
    “I’m sorry again.” And the two faced each other, both driven out of character and somehow aware of it, for it was not like
    George to be angry, nor was Winslow accustomed to pleading and apologizing. Presently an odd smile came over his face.
    “Badger… badger …” he repeated. “It’s a long time since I heard that word, and you’ll never guess why it makes me smile.”
    “Why?”
    “My nickname at school—Badger.”
    Then George smiled too, glad of the momentary side issue. “Because you looked like one or because you did badger people?”
    “Both—possibly.”
    “They once called me Apple-Pie George in Browdley, but it sort of died out.”
    “Apple-Pie George?”
    “Aye…because somebody threw some apple pie in my face during an election. The pie stuck but the name didn’t.” He laughed and Winslow laughed, and it was as if one of several barriers between them were from then on let down. “Too bad I haven’t that drop of whisky for you,” George continued. “But how about changing your mind about another cup of tea?”
    “Thanks, I will.”
    George went to the door and shouted down the corridor to Annie, then came back and began to search a timetable on his desk. “If we’re both going to start in the morning, maybe you’d like to spend the night