Silence fell again. The waiting was terrific.
We had endured an hour of it, and but little more was possible to any
sensitive human organism. All at once, as if the very last possible
moment of silence had passed, the conversation broke loudly and
generally: "And did you notice that slimpsy thing she wore last
night? Indecent, if you ask me, with not a petticoat under it, I'll
be bound!... Always wears shoes twice too small for her ... What men
can see in her ... How they can endure that perpetual smirk!..." They
were at last discussing the Klondike woman, and whatever had befallen
our guest of honour I knew that those present would never regain their
first awe of the occasion. It was now unrestrained gabble.
The second hour passed quickly enough, the latter half of it being
enlivened by the buffet collation which elicited many compliments upon
my ingenuity and good taste. Quite almost every guest partook of a
glass of the vodka. They chattered of everything but music, I dare say
it being thought graceful to ignore the afternoon's disaster.
Belknap-Jackson had sunk into a mood of sullen desperation. He drained
the vodka bottle. Perhaps the liquor brought him something of the
chill Russian fatalism. He was dignified but sodden, with a depression
that seemed to blow from the bleak Siberian steppes.
Pages:
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340