James Hilton: Collected Novels Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: James Hilton
here?”
“That’s very kind, but I think I’d better go back to London as I planned and join you there tomorrow.”
“Just as you like. There’s a good train at five-eighteen—that still gives you an hour, so take it easy.”
Winslow seemed now better able to do this, and until the time of leaving they both relaxed, arranged further details of their meeting the next day, and talked quite casually on a variety of subjects—some even verging on the intellectual, though George was not in the best mood for appreciation. Then he took Winslow to the train, and only in the final minutes before its departure did they refer to the personal matter again. Winslow muttered, leaning out of a first-class compartment: “I—I must say it, Boswell—I—I really don’t know how to thank you for—for taking all this in the way you have…”
“What other way was there to take it?”
“I know, I know…but it’s such an extraordinary situation for you to have been able to come to terms with.”
“Who says I’ve come to terms with it?”
“Yes, but I mean—when I try to imagine myself in your place—”
“ Don’t. ” And there was just the ghost of a smile on George’s face to soften the harsh finality of the word.
“All right…but I can’t help feeling more hopeful already—thanks to you.
Of course the affair’s still incomprehensible to me in many ways—for instance, to fathom the kind of person who could do such a thing…of course you know her, but then I know Jeff, and he’s not a fool—that’s what makes his side of it so hard to understand.”
“Oh, maybe not so hard,” George replied. “It’s probably what you said that you couldn’t find a name for.”
“Infatuation?”
“If you like.” And then, abruptly and without caring for the awkwardness of time and place, George began to tell something about Livia that he had never mentioned to anyone before. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of a railway station that reminded him, for it had happened (he said) at the end of their honeymoon when they were to catch a night train from a seaside place back to London. They had spent the last day pottering about the promenade between showers, and during one of these, while sheltering, they had got into conversation with a well-dressed and rather distinguished-looking man of sixty or so. It was one of those chance acquaintanceships that flourish amazingly without either background or future prospects; almost immediately the stranger offered to conduct them through an adjacent art gallery which, though full of very bad canvases, gave him the chance to talk so fascinatingly about paintings that they thought he must belong to that world himself until later he talked with equal fascination about literature, music, and politics. Within an hour they were all chattering together like old friends, and as evening approached it seemed perfectly natural to accept the stranger’s invitation to dine. (He had given them his name and told them he was French, which had further amazed George because of his completely accentless English.) The two newlyweds were presently entertained in a manner to which they were wholly unaccustomed and which they could certainly not have afforded—George smilingly declined to break his temperance pledge, but ate two dozen oysters with gusto while Livia drank champagne and laughed a great deal. After dinner it seemed equally natural that the stranger should drive them back to their hotel in his car and later take them on to the railway station. The train was already drawn up to the platform, so the three of them sat together in an otherwise unoccupied compartment with half an hour to wait. Suddenly George discovered the hotel-room key in his pocket and, excusing himself, walked down the platform to the station office to arrange for its return. He wasn’t away more than ten minutes, and when he got back the three resumed their conversation until the train’s departure.
About a year
“That’s very kind, but I think I’d better go back to London as I planned and join you there tomorrow.”
“Just as you like. There’s a good train at five-eighteen—that still gives you an hour, so take it easy.”
Winslow seemed now better able to do this, and until the time of leaving they both relaxed, arranged further details of their meeting the next day, and talked quite casually on a variety of subjects—some even verging on the intellectual, though George was not in the best mood for appreciation. Then he took Winslow to the train, and only in the final minutes before its departure did they refer to the personal matter again. Winslow muttered, leaning out of a first-class compartment: “I—I must say it, Boswell—I—I really don’t know how to thank you for—for taking all this in the way you have…”
“What other way was there to take it?”
“I know, I know…but it’s such an extraordinary situation for you to have been able to come to terms with.”
“Who says I’ve come to terms with it?”
“Yes, but I mean—when I try to imagine myself in your place—”
“ Don’t. ” And there was just the ghost of a smile on George’s face to soften the harsh finality of the word.
“All right…but I can’t help feeling more hopeful already—thanks to you.
Of course the affair’s still incomprehensible to me in many ways—for instance, to fathom the kind of person who could do such a thing…of course you know her, but then I know Jeff, and he’s not a fool—that’s what makes his side of it so hard to understand.”
“Oh, maybe not so hard,” George replied. “It’s probably what you said that you couldn’t find a name for.”
“Infatuation?”
“If you like.” And then, abruptly and without caring for the awkwardness of time and place, George began to tell something about Livia that he had never mentioned to anyone before. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of a railway station that reminded him, for it had happened (he said) at the end of their honeymoon when they were to catch a night train from a seaside place back to London. They had spent the last day pottering about the promenade between showers, and during one of these, while sheltering, they had got into conversation with a well-dressed and rather distinguished-looking man of sixty or so. It was one of those chance acquaintanceships that flourish amazingly without either background or future prospects; almost immediately the stranger offered to conduct them through an adjacent art gallery which, though full of very bad canvases, gave him the chance to talk so fascinatingly about paintings that they thought he must belong to that world himself until later he talked with equal fascination about literature, music, and politics. Within an hour they were all chattering together like old friends, and as evening approached it seemed perfectly natural to accept the stranger’s invitation to dine. (He had given them his name and told them he was French, which had further amazed George because of his completely accentless English.) The two newlyweds were presently entertained in a manner to which they were wholly unaccustomed and which they could certainly not have afforded—George smilingly declined to break his temperance pledge, but ate two dozen oysters with gusto while Livia drank champagne and laughed a great deal. After dinner it seemed equally natural that the stranger should drive them back to their hotel in his car and later take them on to the railway station. The train was already drawn up to the platform, so the three of them sat together in an otherwise unoccupied compartment with half an hour to wait. Suddenly George discovered the hotel-room key in his pocket and, excusing himself, walked down the platform to the station office to arrange for its return. He wasn’t away more than ten minutes, and when he got back the three resumed their conversation until the train’s departure.
About a year