"Stevenson_Markheim" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stevenson Robert Louis)

glanced at her childish little face, and he hesitated. "It seems so
rude of me," he added. He was the soul of courtesy, although he was an
amateur tenor singer.

"Please tell me," the little girl said, in her winning way.

"Well," he said, gathering himself together, "it is the one subject on
which I can be eloquent. Ever since I can remember, I have been
worried and tortured by those rascals. I have tried in every way to
escape from them, but there is no hope for me. Yes; I believe that all
the tuners in the universe are in league against me, and have marked
me out for their special prey."

"/All the what/?" asked the little girl, with a jerk in her voice.

"All the tuners, of course," he replied, rather snappishly. "I know
that we cannot do without them; but good heavens! they have no tact,
no consideration, no mercy. Whenever I've wanted to write or read
quietly, that fatal knock has come at the door, and I've known by
instinct that all chance of peace was over. Whenever I've been giving
a luncheon party, the tuner has arrived, with his abominable black
bag, and his abominable card which has to be signed at once. On one
occasion I was just proposing to a girl in her father's library when
the tuner struck up in the drawing-room. I left off suddenly, and fled
from the house. But there is no escape from these fiends; I believe
they are swarming about in the air like so many bacteria. And how, in
the name of goodness, you should deliberately choose to be one of
them, and should be so enthusiastic over your work, puzzles me beyond
all words. Don't say that you carry a black bag, and present cards
which have to be filled up at the most inconvenient time; don't--"

He stopped suddenly, for the little girl was convulsed with laughter.
She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks, and then she dried
her eyes and laughed again.

"Excuse me," she said; "I can't help myself; it's so funny."

"It may be funny to you," he said, laughing in spite of himself; "but
it is not funny to me."

"Of course it isn't," she replied, making a desperate effort to be
serious. "Well, tell me something more about these tuners."

"Not another word," he said, gallantly. "I am ashamed of myself as it
is. Come to the end of the garden, and let me show you the view down
into the valley."

She had conquered her fit of merriment, but her face wore a settled
look of mischief, and she was evidently the possessor of some secret
joke. She seemed in capital health and spirits, and had so much to say