Reckoning of Boston Jim Read Online Free PDF Page A

shall have Ah-Sing prepare a roast duck. Your favourite, is it not? We will talk of the latest inventions, of that war in America.” she smiles softly. “And other such safe and simple topics.”
    â€œI would be honoured,” Eugene says and presses her bare hand to his lips, inhales the scent of powdered roses. “Good night, dearest Beatrice. You who have been so kind, so full of gracious understanding. Do not doubt I remain your servant.”
    The use of her given name renders her speechless excepting a mutter of “Good night, sir, that is, Eugene.”
    He listens for her steps up the stairs, and then the slow creaking shut of her door. She had once asked him into her room on some private matter then suggested that if he stayed it would not be unacceptable.
    â€œMy principles will not allow me to compromise your reputation,” he had replied, but with resignation and regret, as if his principles were grim, unyielding relatives.
    â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆÂ Â â‰ˆ
    Morning casts a grey light over the painting of the oblivious picnickers. He will be glad to be quit of its sight. Dora called them a cheerful lot, but then she is likewise blessedly oblivious. Mrs. Jacobsen described them once as “awash in love” and added that they were her Parisian ancestors before the revolution came between their heads and their shoulders. Eugene thinks it far more likely that her ancestors would be depicted as peasants toiling in some mud-soaked field, but when is he one to quibble at inventiveness?
    The bottle of sherry on the sideboard has a finger width left. Eugene holds it up. “Let’s kill you off then, soldier, before we do anything rash.”

Three
    At the London Coffee, House Boston orders beefsteak with potatoes, a glass of whiskey, coffee and pie. The serving woman has a wattled neck and wears three great rings. In the autumn she wore only two. Her dress then was also green, but of a darker hue. She does not recognize him. Would not, he supposes, even if she scrutinized him. And he makes no sign that he recognizes her. What would be the purpose in that? He recognizes faces he has known for years and those merely glimpsed, faces seen in windows and doorways, infants’ squalling faces, and the faces of the dead, staring at the clouds. The remembered crowd his head to bursting, and cause an ache at times as if they were hammering at his skull. That is why he rarely looks directly at people unless he need intimidate. That is why he prefers his own company, if prefers is the right word.
    He chews slowly. The food does not taste as fine as it usually does, the thought of his owing having returned to plague him.
    The serving woman takes his plate, asks if Mister is attending the entertainment at the Victoria Theatre. It is a splendid show. The famous Miss Annabel Anderson, the astonishing Professor Hinkeman.
    â€œNothing better than a piece of theatre,” the Dora woman had said, and then described her favourite shows— The Cripple of Fenchurch Street , A Chaste Maid of Cheapside . Her hands moved constantly as she spoke, now pressing to her chest in imitation of a tragic heroine, now running over the shape of a corpulent actor. “People were always saying it was a great shame I never chose the stage. Didn’t Mr. Hume himself remark I was a regular dramatist? Oh, I know what you’re thinking, that it’s not a thing for a lady. But I wouldn’t be in one of those penny gaffes where people throw spoilt cabbages if they’re not liking what they get. No, I’d be at the Royal. I’m talking of the Royal in London, mind. I been there once. Oh, such a grand place! Such lime lights! I seen Lily Kurl there. I’d be one like her, see. Her sort get the respect of the gentry, they do. Ah, to have hundreds of folk tossing you flowers, all adoring you, all cheering. And tell me what you’ve seen now. Surely you’ve seen some entertainment? A magic