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

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      "Don't say I've kept you waiting," she murmured. "I could never forgive myself."

      James made some polite reply, and they went down to dinner. The conversation was kept at the high level which one naturally expects from persons fashionable enough to dine late. They discussed Literature, by which they meant the last novel but one; Art, by which they meant the Royal Academy; and Society, by which they meant their friends who kept carriages. Mrs. Clibborn said that, of course, she could not expect James to pay any attention to her, since all his thoughts must be for Mary, and then proceeded entirely to absorb him.

      "You must find it very dull here," she moaned. "I'm afraid you'll be bored to death." And she looked at Mary with her most smilingly cruel expression. "Oh, Mary, why did you put on that dreadfully dowdy frock? I've asked you over and over again to give it away, but you never pay attention to your poor mother."

      "It's all right," said Mary, looking down at it, laughing and blushing a little.

      Mrs. Clibborn turned again to James.

      "I think it's such a mistake for women not to dress well. I'm an old woman now, but I always try to look my best. Reggie has never seen me in a dowdy gown. Have you, Reggie?"

      "Any dress would become you, my love."

      "Oh, Reggie, don't say that before James. He looks upon his future mother as an old woman."

      Then at the end of dinner:

      "Don't sit too long over your wine. I shall be so dull with nobody but Mary to amuse me."

      Mrs. Clibborn had been fond enough of Mary when she was a little girl, who could be petted on occasion and sent away when necessary; but as she grew up and exhibited a will of her own, she found her almost an intolerable nuisance. The girl developed a conscience, and refused indignantly to tell the little fibs which her mother occasionally suggested. She put her sense of right and wrong before Mrs. Clibborn's wishes, which that lady considered undutiful, if not entirely wicked. It seemed nothing short of an impertinence that Mary should disapprove of theatres when there was nothing to which the elder woman was more devoted. And Mrs. Clibborn felt that the girl saw through all her little tricks and artful dodges, often speaking out strongly when her mother proposed to do something particularly underhand. It was another grievance that Mary had inherited no good looks, and the faded beauty, in her vanity, was convinced that the girl spitefully observed every fresh wrinkle that appeared upon her face. But Mrs. Clibborn was also a little afraid of her daughter; such meekness and such good temper were difficult to overcome; and when she snubbed her, it was not only to chasten a proud spirit, but also to reassure herself.

      When the ladies had retired, the Colonel handed James an execrable cigar.

      "Now, I'm going to give you some very special port I've got," he said.

      He poured out a glass with extreme care, and passed it over with evident pride. James remembered Mary's story of the doctor, and having tasted the wine, entirely sympathised with him. It was no wonder that invalids did not thrive upon it.

      "Fine wine, isn't it?" said Colonel Clibborn. "Had it in my cellar for years." He shook it so as to inhale the aroma. "I got it from my old friend, the Duke of St. Olphert's. 'Reggie, my boy,' he said—'Reggie, do you want some good port?' 'Good port, Bill!' I cried—I always called him Bill, you know; his Christian name was William—'I should think I do, Billy, old boy.' 'Well,' said the Duke, 'I've got some I can let you have.'"

      "He was a wine-merchant, was he?" asked James.

      "Wine-merchant! My dear fellow, he was the Duke of St. Olphert's. He'd bought up the cellar of an Austrian nobleman, and he had more port than he wanted."

      "And this is some of it?" asked James, gravely, holding the murky fluid to the light.

      Then the Colonel stretched his legs and began to talk of the war. James, rather tired of the subject, sought to change the conversation; but Colonel Clibborn was anxious to tell one who had been through it how the thing should have been conducted; so his guest, with a mixture of astonishment and indignation, resigned himself to listen to the most pitiful inanities. He marvelled that a man should have spent his life in the service, and yet apparently be ignorant of the very elements of warfare; but having already learnt to hold his tongue, he let the Colonel talk, and was presently rewarded by a break. Something reminded the gallant cavalryman of a hoary anecdote, and he gave James that dreary round of stories which have dragged their heavy feet for thirty years from garrison to garrison. Then, naturally, he proceeded to the account of his own youthful conquests. The Colonel had evidently been a devil with the ladies, for he knew all about the forgotten ballet-dancers of the seventies, and related with gusto a number of scabrous tales.

      "Ah, my boy, in my day we went the pace! I tell you in confidence, I was a deuce of a rake before I got married."

      When they returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Clibborn was ready with her langorous smile, and made James sit beside her on the sofa. In a few minutes the Colonel, as was his habit, closed his eyes, dropped his chin, and fell comfortably asleep. Mrs. Clibborn slowly turned to Mary.

      "Will you try and find me my glasses, darling," she murmured. "They're either in my work-basket or on the morning-room table. And if you can't see them there, perhaps they're in your father's study. I want to read Jamie a letter."

      "I'll go and look, mother."

      Mary went out, and Mrs. Clibborn put her hand on Jamie's arm.

      "Do you dislike me very much, Jamie?" she murmured softly.

      "On the contrary!"

      "I'm afraid your mother doesn't care for me."

      "I'm sure she does."

      "Women have never liked me. I don't know why. I can't help it if I'm not exactly—plain, I'm as God made me."

      James thought that the Almighty in that case must have an unexpected familiarity with the rouge-pot and the powder-puff.

      "Do you know that I did all I could to prevent your engagement to Mary?"

      "You!" cried James, thunderstruck. "I never knew that."

      "I thought I had better tell you myself. You mustn't be angry with me. It was for your own good. If I had had my way you would never have become engaged. I thought you were so much too young."

      "Five years ago, d'you mean—when it first happened?"

      "You were only a boy—a very nice boy, Jamie. I always liked you. I don't approve of long engagements, and I thought you'd change your mind. Most young men are a little wild; it's right that they should be."

      James looked at her, wondering suddenly whether she knew or divined anything. It was impossible, she was too silly.

      "You're very wise."

      "Oh, don't say that!" cried Mrs. Clibborn, with a positive groan. "It sounds so middle-aged.... I always thought Mary was too old for you. A woman should be ten years younger than her husband."

      "Tell me all about it," insisted James.

      "They wouldn't listen to me. They said you had better be engaged. They thought it would benefit your morals. I was very much against it. I think boys are so much nicer when they haven't got encumbrances—or morals."

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