The Essential Somerset Maugham: 33 Books in One Edition. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

draw the average English girl, should invariably produce an utter fool?”

      “Madam, Madam, this is heresy.”

      “No, sir, it is merely a question—prompted by a desire for information.”

      “It must be their want of skill.”

      “I hope so.”

      Miss Glover was one of the best natured and most charitable creatures upon the face of the earth, a miracle of abnegation and unselfishness; but a person to be amused by her could have been only an absolute lunatic.

      “She’s really a dear kind thing,” said Miss Ley of her, “and she does endless good in the parish—but she’s really too dull: she’s only fit for heaven!”

      And the image passed through Miss Ley’s mind, unsobered by advancing years, of Miss Glover, with her colourless hair hanging down her back, wings, and a golden harp, singing hymns in a squeaky voice, morning, noon, and night. Indeed, the general conception of paradisaical costume suited Miss Glover very ill. She was a woman of about eight and twenty, but might have been any age between one score and two; you felt that she had always been the same and that years would have no power over her strength of mind. She had no figure, and her clothes were so stiff and unyielding as to give an impression of armour. She was nearly always dressed in a tight black jacket of ribbed cloth that was evidently most durable, the plainest of skirts, and strong, really strong boots! Her hat was suited for all weathers and she had made it herself! She never wore a veil, and her skin was dry and hard, drawn so tightly over the bones as to give her face extraordinary angularity; over her prominent cheek-bones was a red flush, the colour of which was not uniformly suffused, but with the capillaries standing out distinctly, forming a network. Her nose and mouth were what is politely termed of a determined character, her pale blue eyes slightly protruded. Ten years of East Anglian winds had blown all the softness from her face, and their bitter fury seemed to have bleached even her hair. One could not tell if this was brown and had lost its richness, or gold from which the shimmer had vanished; and the roots sprang from the cranium with a curious apartness, so that Miss Ley always thought how easy in her case it would be for the Recording Angel to number the hairs. But notwithstanding the hard, uncompromising exterior which suggested extreme determination, Miss Glover was so bashful, so absurdly self-conscious, as to blush at every opportunity; and in the presence of a stranger to go through utter misery from inability to think of a single word to say. At the same time she had the tenderest of hearts, sympathetic, compassionate; she overflowed with love and pity for her fellow-creatures. She was also excessively sentimental!

      “And how is your brother?” asked Miss Ley.

      Mr. Glover was the Vicar of Leanham, which was about a mile from Court Leys on the Tercanbury Road, and for him Miss Glover had kept house since his appointment to the living.

      “Oh, he’s very well. Of course he’s rather worried about the dissenters. You know they’re putting up a new chapel in Leanham; it’s perfectly dreadful.”

      “Mr. Craddock mentioned the fact at luncheon.”

      “Oh, was he lunching with you? I didn’t know you knew him well enough for that.”

      “I suppose he’s here now,” said Miss Ley; “he’s not been in to say good-bye.”

      Miss Glover looked at her with some want of intelligence. But it was not to be expected that Miss Ley could explain before making the affair a good deal more complicated.

      “And how is Bertha?” asked Miss Glover, whose conversation was chiefly concerned with inquiries about mutual acquaintance.

      “Oh, of course, she’s in the seventh heaven of delight.”

      “Oh!” said Miss Glover, not understanding at all what Miss Ley meant.

      She was somewhat afraid of the elder lady. Even though her brother Charles said he feared she was worldly, Miss Glover could not fail to respect a woman who had lived in London and on the continent, who had met Dean Farrar and seen Miss Marie Corelli.

      “Of course,” she said, “Bertha is young, and naturally high spirited.”

      “Well, I’m sure, I hope she’ll be happy.”

      “You must be very anxious about her future, Miss Ley.” Miss Glover found her hostess’s observations simply cryptic, and, feeling foolish, blushed a fiery red.

      “Not at all; she’s her own mistress, and as able-bodied and as reasonably-minded as most young women. But, of course, it’s a great risk.”

      “I’m very sorry, Miss Ley,” said the vicar’s sister, in such distress as to give her friend certain qualms of conscience, “but I really don’t understand. What is a great risk?”

      “Matrimony, my dear.”

      “Is Bertha going to be married? Oh, dear Miss Ley, let me congratulate you. How happy and proud you must be!”

      “My dear Miss Glover, please keep calm. And if you want to congratulate anybody, congratulate Bertha—not me.”

      “But I’m so glad, Miss Ley. To think of dear Bertha getting married; Charles will be so pleased.”

      “It’s to Mr. Edward Craddock,” drily said Miss Ley, interrupting these transports.

      “Oh!” Miss Glover’s jaw dropped and she changed colour; then, recovering herself: “You don’t say so!”

      “You seem surprised, dear Miss Glover,” said the elder lady, with a thin smile.

      “I am surprised. I thought they scarcely knew one another; and besides—“ Miss Glover stopped, with embarrassment.

      “And besides what?” inquired Miss Ley, sharply.

      “Well, Miss Ley, of course Mr. Craddock is a very good young man and I like him, but I shouldn’t have thought him a suitable match for Bertha.”

      “It depends upon what you mean by a suitable match.”

      “I was always hoping Bertha would marry young Mr. Branderton of the Towers.”

      “Hm!” said Miss Ley, who did not like the neighboring squire’s mother, “I don’t know what Mr. Branderton has to recommend him beyond the possession of four or five generations of particularly stupid ancestors and two or three thousand acres which he can neither let nor sell.”

      “Of course Mr. Craddock is a very worthy young man,” added Miss Glover, who was afraid she had said too much. “If you approve of the match no one else can complain.”

      “I don’t approve of the match, Miss Glover, but I’m not such a fool as to oppose it. Marriage is always a hopeless idiocy for a woman who has enough money of her own to live upon.”

      “It’s an institution of the Church, Miss Ley,” replied Miss Glover, rather severely.

      “Is it?” retorted Miss Ley. “I always thought it was an arrangement to provide work for the judges in the Divorce Court.”

      To this Miss Glover very properly made no answer.

      “Do you think they’ll be happy together?”

      “I think it very improbable,” said Miss Ley.

      “Well, don’t you think it’s your duty—excuse my mentioning it, Miss Ley—to do something?”

      “My dear Miss Glover, I don’t think they’ll be more unhappy than most married couples; and one’s greatest duty in this world is to leave people alone.”

      “There I cannot agree with you,” said Miss Glover, bridling. “If duty was not more difficult than that there would be no credit in doing it.”

      “Ah, my dear, your idea of a happy life is always to do the disagreeable thing: mine is to gather the roses—with gloves on, so that the thorns should not prick me.”

      “That’s not the way to win the