Charles Mafferton," and
the reward was very considerable.
But this has nothing to do with the way the plot thickened on the Lake
of Como. I was watching Bellagio slip past among the trees on the left
shore and wondering whether we could hear the nightingales if it were
not for the steamer's engines--which was particularly unlikely as it was
the middle of the afternoon--and thinking about the trifles that would
sometimes divide lives plainly intended to mingle. Mere enunciation, for
example, was a thing one could so soon become reaccustomed to; already
momma had ceased to congratulate me on my broad a's, and I could not
help the inference that my conversation was again unobtrusively
Chicagoan. It was frustrating, too, that I had no way of finding out
how much poppa knew, and extremely irritating to think that he knew
anything. He was sitting near me as I mused, immersed in the American
mail, while momma and his Aunt Caroline insensibly glided towards
intimacy again on two wicker chairs close by. Mr. Mafferton was counting
the luggage somewhere; he was never happy on a steamer until he had done
that; and Isabel was being fervently apologised to by Dicky on the other
side of the deck.
Pages:
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321