he said, “Do c-come – p-please.”
The sniffing ceased. She looked at him alertly. “You must give me fifteen minutes to change, and I can’t ask you up because it’s a one-room flat, and it’s in an awful mess.”
Anthony beamed. “I say, that’s wonderful. Look here, old girl, if you aren’t down in fifteen minutes, I shall come up and fetch you.”
He did not have to go up.
Was it her change of clothes, he wondered, when she came back (she was wearing a simple black evening dress with a cameo brooch), or her added touch of colour, that made her seem so different, that made her talk so vivaciously?
She told him her uneventful history. She was the third of four daughters of a country solicitor who had married, surprisingly, a chorus girl. The marriage had not been altogether successful, because her father had been given to drink, and his practice had always been a struggling one. He had been disappointed that his wife had not borne him a son, but his daughters after all had not been a burden on him. “Nobody ever called us the beautiful Miss Cleverlys,” she said with some complacency, “but we’ve not done badly.” Margaret, the eldest daughter, had been old enough to be a VAD in the war, and had married a Colonel whom she nursed back to health. “Romantic,” Ruth said briefly. Ellen, the second daughter, had married a rich boot-manufacturer in Northampton, and two months ago Claire, the youngest, who was only just twenty-one, had married the son of a neighbouring squire. “He has expectations,” she said. “Dad’s very pleased. I’m the black sheep.”
“You’re not married?”
She flashed her ringless left hand. “You’re an unobservant ox, Anthony Shelton.”
“Nor engaged?” She shook her head. “I’m engaged,” Anthony said with a slight sigh.
“I suppose you’re rich?” she said, and he was rather taken aback. “Don’t ask me why I think so,” she went on hurriedly. “Anyone who can afford to buy books for a hundred guineas is rich to me. I live on my income and a pound a week which Dad allows me. Not that he always sends it.”
“I suppose I am well-off.” He pondered deeply. “Do you know, I don’t know what my father does, except that it’s something in the City. Something to do with stocks, I mean.” He pondered again. “I must ask him. Does money mean a lot to you?”
“Not really. I’m sick of living in one room, that’s all. I long for a little luxury – just one or two mink coats, and a necklace dripping with diamonds. Like most poor girls, I’m vulgar at heart.”
“It’s funny,” he mused, “Vicky doesn’t care about money.” She made no reply, and he said, “Who’s this chap Cobb? I’ve heard something about him, but I couldn’t quite place it.”
“Don’t you remember Henderson mentioned him as an authority? He’s an old, old man.”
“What’s he an authority on?”
“Bibliography – that means pretty well everything connected with books except the writing of them. Friendly with Swinburne, Browning, Tennyson. Used to correspond with them about their first editions, all that kind of thing.”
“Is he more important than Blackburn?”
“You can’t quite put it like that. Blackburn has a reputation as an essayist – pretty inflated one, if you ask me. He happens to know a lot about Martin Rawlings, because he wrote an essay on him. But he isn’t an authority on first editions. Cobb is. If he tells us Martin Rawlings told him that he had that booklet printed in 1860 –”
She paused. Anthony grunted a query.
“I suppose we should have to accept it. Though it still wouldn’t explain about the publisher’s name being wrong.”
Looking straight ahead, Anthony said, “Let’s go and see him tomorrow.”
She laughed. “Easier said than done. He’s incredibly old, supposed to have been at death’s door for years. And he lives in complete isolation. Won’t be interviewed by the Press or anybody else. Besides, I
The sniffing ceased. She looked at him alertly. “You must give me fifteen minutes to change, and I can’t ask you up because it’s a one-room flat, and it’s in an awful mess.”
Anthony beamed. “I say, that’s wonderful. Look here, old girl, if you aren’t down in fifteen minutes, I shall come up and fetch you.”
He did not have to go up.
Was it her change of clothes, he wondered, when she came back (she was wearing a simple black evening dress with a cameo brooch), or her added touch of colour, that made her seem so different, that made her talk so vivaciously?
She told him her uneventful history. She was the third of four daughters of a country solicitor who had married, surprisingly, a chorus girl. The marriage had not been altogether successful, because her father had been given to drink, and his practice had always been a struggling one. He had been disappointed that his wife had not borne him a son, but his daughters after all had not been a burden on him. “Nobody ever called us the beautiful Miss Cleverlys,” she said with some complacency, “but we’ve not done badly.” Margaret, the eldest daughter, had been old enough to be a VAD in the war, and had married a Colonel whom she nursed back to health. “Romantic,” Ruth said briefly. Ellen, the second daughter, had married a rich boot-manufacturer in Northampton, and two months ago Claire, the youngest, who was only just twenty-one, had married the son of a neighbouring squire. “He has expectations,” she said. “Dad’s very pleased. I’m the black sheep.”
“You’re not married?”
She flashed her ringless left hand. “You’re an unobservant ox, Anthony Shelton.”
“Nor engaged?” She shook her head. “I’m engaged,” Anthony said with a slight sigh.
“I suppose you’re rich?” she said, and he was rather taken aback. “Don’t ask me why I think so,” she went on hurriedly. “Anyone who can afford to buy books for a hundred guineas is rich to me. I live on my income and a pound a week which Dad allows me. Not that he always sends it.”
“I suppose I am well-off.” He pondered deeply. “Do you know, I don’t know what my father does, except that it’s something in the City. Something to do with stocks, I mean.” He pondered again. “I must ask him. Does money mean a lot to you?”
“Not really. I’m sick of living in one room, that’s all. I long for a little luxury – just one or two mink coats, and a necklace dripping with diamonds. Like most poor girls, I’m vulgar at heart.”
“It’s funny,” he mused, “Vicky doesn’t care about money.” She made no reply, and he said, “Who’s this chap Cobb? I’ve heard something about him, but I couldn’t quite place it.”
“Don’t you remember Henderson mentioned him as an authority? He’s an old, old man.”
“What’s he an authority on?”
“Bibliography – that means pretty well everything connected with books except the writing of them. Friendly with Swinburne, Browning, Tennyson. Used to correspond with them about their first editions, all that kind of thing.”
“Is he more important than Blackburn?”
“You can’t quite put it like that. Blackburn has a reputation as an essayist – pretty inflated one, if you ask me. He happens to know a lot about Martin Rawlings, because he wrote an essay on him. But he isn’t an authority on first editions. Cobb is. If he tells us Martin Rawlings told him that he had that booklet printed in 1860 –”
She paused. Anthony grunted a query.
“I suppose we should have to accept it. Though it still wouldn’t explain about the publisher’s name being wrong.”
Looking straight ahead, Anthony said, “Let’s go and see him tomorrow.”
She laughed. “Easier said than done. He’s incredibly old, supposed to have been at death’s door for years. And he lives in complete isolation. Won’t be interviewed by the Press or anybody else. Besides, I
Similar Books
