"You must have some tea immediately," Arnold said, before the battered
urns and the dusty crotons of her dwelling.
"A little whiskey and soda, I think. And you will come up, please, and
have some, too. You must."
"Thanks," he said, looking at his watch. "If I do--"
"You'll have the soda without the whiskey! All right!" she laughed, and
led the way.
"This is vicious indulgence," Arnold said of his beverage, sitting under
the inverted Japanese umbrellas. "I haven't been pitched out of a
ticca-gharry."
It is doubtful whether the indulgence was altogether in the soda, which
is, after all, ascetic in its quality, and only suitably effervescent,
like ecclesiastical humour. It may very probably be that there was no
indulgence; indeed one is convinced that the word, like so many words,
says too much. The springs of Arnold's chair were bursting through the
bottom, and there were stains on its faded chintz-arms, but it was
comfortable, and he leaned back in it, looking up at the paper
umbrellas. You know the room; I took you into it with Duff Lindsay, who
did not come there from rigidities and rituals, and who had a qualified
pleasure in it. But there were lines in the folds of the flowered window
curtains dragging half a yard upon the floor which seemed to disband
Arnold's spirit, and a twinkle in the blue bead of a bamboo screen where
the light came through that released it altogether.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125