The Research MagnificentWells, H. G. (Herbert George)
General
The Research Magnificent
Wells, H. G. (Herbert George)
Conduct of life -- Fiction
She whipped him with her questions as though she was slashing his face.
He became dead-white and grimly civil, answering every question as
though it was the sanest, most justifiable inquiry.
“Of course I don't know who they are. How should I know? What need is
there to know?”
“There are ways of finding out,” she insisted. “If I am to go down and
make myself pleasant to these people because of you.”
“But I implore you not to.”
“And five minutes ago you were imploring me to! Of course I shall.”
“Oh well!--well!”
“One has to know SOMETHING of the people to whom one commits oneself,
surely.”
“They are decent people; they are well-behaved people.”
“Oh!--I'll behave well. Don't think I'll disgrace your casual
acquaintances. But who they are, what they are, I WILL know....”
On that point Lady Marayne was to score beyond her utmost expectations.
“Come round,” she said over the telephone, two mornings later. “I've
something to tell you.”
She was so triumphant that she was sorry for him. When it came to
telling him, she failed from her fierceness.
“Poff, my little son,” she said, “I'm so sorry I hardly know how to tell
you. Poff, I'm sorry. I have to tell you--and it's utterly beastly.”
“But what?” he asked.
“These people are dreadful people.”
“But how?”
“You've heard of the great Kent and Eastern Bank smash and the
Marlborough Building Society frauds eight or nine years ago?”
“Vaguely. But what has that to do with them?”
“That man Morris.”
She stopped short, and Benham nodded for her to go on.
“Her father,” said Lady Marayne.
“But who was Morris? Really, mother, I don't remember.”
“He was sentenced to seven years--ten years--I forget. He had done all
sorts of dreadful things. He was a swindler. And when he went out of the
dock into the waiting-room-- He had a signet ring with prussic acid in
it--...”
“I remember now,” he said.
A silence fell between them.
Benham stood quite motionless on the hearthrug and stared very hard at
the little volume of Henley's poetry that lay upon the table.
He cleared his throat presently.
“You can't go and see them then,” he said. “After all--since I am going
abroad so soon--... It doesn't so very much matter.”
10
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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