"The Space Machine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

iv

Miss Fitzgibbon took one of the glasses from me, and swallowed the brandy.

“Would you like some more?” she said softly.

“Yes, please.”

The flask was now nearly empty, but we shared what remained.

I looked at Miss Fitzgibbon’s face, pale in the gaslight, and wondered if I looked as ashen.

“I must leave at once, of course,” I said.

She shook her head. “You would be seen. Mrs Anson wouldn’t dare come to the room again, but she will not go straight to bed.”

“Then what can I do?”

“We’ll have to wait. I should think if you leave in about an hour’s time she will no longer be around.”

“We are behaving as if we are guilty,” I said. “Why can I not go now, and tell Mrs Anson the truth of the matter?”

“Because we have already resorted to deception, and she has seen me in my nightwear.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I shall have to turn off the gaslights, as if I have gone to bed. There is a small oil-lamp, and we can sit by that.” She indicated, a folding dressing-screen. “If you would move that in front of the door, Mr Turnbull, it will mask the light and help subdue our voices.”

“I’ll move it at once,” I said.

Miss Fitzgibbon put another lump of coal on the fire, lit the oil-lamp, and turned off the gas-mantles.

I helped her move the two easy chairs towards the fireplace, then placed the lamp on the mantelpiece.

“Do you mind waiting a while?” she asked me.

“I should prefer to leave,” I said uncomfortably, “but I think you are right. I should not care to face Mrs Anson at this moment.”

“Then please try to be less agitated.”

I said: “Miss Fitzgibbon, I should feel much more relaxed if you would put on your clothes again.”

“But beneath this gown I am wearing my underclothing.” “Even so.”

I went into the bath-room for a few minutes, and when I returned she had replaced her dress. Her hair was still loose, though, which I found pleasing, for I felt her face was better suited when framed in this way.

As I sat down, she said tome: “Can I ask one more favour of you, without further shocking you?”

“What is that?”

“I will be more at ease during the next hour if you would stop addressing me by my surname. My name is Amelia.”

“I know,” I said. “I heard Mrs Anson. I am Edward.” “You are so formal, Edward.”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “It is what I am used to.”

The tension had left me, and I felt very tired. Judging by the way Miss Fitzgibbon—or Amelia—was sitting, she felt the same. The abandonment of formal address was a similar relaxation, as if Mrs Anson’s abrupt intrusion had swept aside the normal courtesies. We had suffered, and survived, a potential catastrophe and it had drawn us together.

“Do you think that Mrs Anson suspected I was here, Amelia?” I said.

She glanced shrewdly at me. “No, she knew you were here.”

“Then I have compromised you!”

“It is I who have compromised you. The deception was of my own invention.”

I said: “You’re very candid. I don’t think I have ever met anyone like you.”

“Well, in spite of your stuffiness, Edward, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you before.”