The Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (33 Works in One Edition). Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

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      “I’m really afraid to go out with you,” said Bertha. “People will think you’re my son. ‘Dear me, who’d have thought she was forty!’”

      “What rot!” He looked at her beautiful gown. Like all really nice women, Bertha was extremely careful to be always well dressed. “By Jove, you are a stunner!”

      “My dear child, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

      They drove off—to a restaurant which Gerald, boylike, had chosen, because common report pronounced it the dearest in London. Bertha was much amused by the bustle, the glitter of women in diamonds, the busy waiters gliding to and fro, the glare of the electric light: and her eyes rested with approval on the handsome boy in front of her. She could not keep in check the recklessness with which he insisted on ordering the most expensive things; and when they arrived at the opera, she found he had a box.

      “Oh, you wretch,” she cried. “You must be utterly ruined.”

      “Oh, I’ve got five hundred quid,” he replied, laughing. “I must blue some of it.”

      “But why on earth did you get a box?”

      “I remembered that you hated any other part of the theatre.”

      “But you promised to get cheap seats.”

      “And I wanted to be alone with you.”

      He was by nature a flatterer; and few women could withstand the cajolery of his green eyes, and of his charming smile.

      “He must be very fond of me,” thought Bertha, as they drove home, and she put her arm in his to express her thanks and her appreciation.

      “It’s very nice of you to have been so good to me. I always thought you were a nice boy.”

      “I’d do more than that for you.”

      He would have given the rest of his five hundred pounds for one kiss. She knew it, and was pleased, but gave him no encouragement, and for once he was bashful. They separated at her doorstep with the quietest handshake.

      “It’s awfully kind of you to have come.”

      He appeared immensely grateful to her. Her conscience pricked her now that he had spent so much money; but she liked him all the more.

       Gerald’s month was nearly over, and Bertha was astonished that he occupied her thoughts so much. She did not know that she was so fond of him.

      “I wish he weren’t going,” she said, and then quickly: “but of course it’s much better that he should!”

      At that moment the boy appeared.

      “This day week you’ll be on the sea, Gerald,” she said. “Then you’ll be sorry for all your iniquities.”

      “No!” he answered, sitting in the position he most affected, at Bertha’s feet.

      “No—which?”

      “I shan’t be sorry,” he replied, with a smile, “and I’m not going away.”

      “What d’you mean?”

      “I’ve altered my plans. The man I’m going to said I could start at the beginning of the month or a fortnight later.”

      “But why?” It was a foolish question, because she knew.

      “I had nothing to stay for. Now I have, that’s all.”

      Bertha looked at him, and caught his shining eyes fixed intently upon her. She became grave.

      “You’re not angry?” he asked, changing his tone. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. I don’t want to leave you.”

      He looked at her so earnestly and tears came to his eyes, Bertha could not help being touched.

      “I’m very glad that you should stay, dear. I didn’t want you to go so soon. We’ve been such good friends.”

      She passed her fingers through his curly hair and over his ears; but he started, and shivered.

      “Don’t do that,” he said, pushing her hand away.

      “Why not?” she cried, laughing. “Are you frightened of me?”

      And caressingly she passed her hand over his ears again.

      “Oh, you don’t know what pain that gives me.”

      He sprang up, and to her astonishment Bertha saw that he was pale and trembling.

      “I feel I shall go mad when you touch me.”

      Suddenly she saw the burning passion in his eyes; it was love that made him tremble. Bertha gave a little cry, and a curious sensation pressed her heart. Then without warning, the boy seized her hands and falling on his knees before her, kissed them repeatedly. His hot breath made Bertha tremble too, and the kisses burnt themselves into her flesh. She snatched her hands away.

      “I’ve wanted to do that so long,” he whispered.

      She was too deeply moved to answer, but stood looking at him.

      “You must be mad, Gerald.” She pretended to laugh.

      “Bertha!”

      They stood very close together; he was about to put his arms round her. And for an instant she had an insane desire to let him do what he would, to let him kiss her lips as he had kissed her hands; and she wanted to kiss his mouth, and the curly hair, and his cheeks soft as a girl’s. But she recovered herself.

      “Oh, it’s absurd! Don’t be silly, Gerald.”

      He could not speak; he looked at her, his green eyes sparkling with desire.

      “I love you.”

      “My dear boy, do you want me to succeed your mother’s maid?”

      “Oh!” he gave a groan and turned red.

      “I’m glad you’re staying on. You’ll be able to see Edward, who’s coming to town. You’ve never met my husband, have you?”

      His lips twitched, and he seemed to struggle to compose himself. Then he threw himself on a chair and buried his face in his hands. He seemed so little, so young—and he loved her. Bertha looked at him for a moment, and tears came to her eyes. She called herself brutal, and put her hand on his shoulder.

      “Gerald!” He did not look up. “Gerald, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m sorry for what I said.”

      She bent down and drew his hands away from his face.

      “Are you cross with me?” he asked, almost tearfully.

      “No,” she answered, caressingly. “But you mustn’t be silly, dearest. You know I’m old enough to be your mother.”

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