Генри Джеймс
Greville Fane
“He has invented one,” I said, “and he’s paid every day of his life.”
“What is it?” she asked, looking hard at the picture of the year; “Baby’s Tub,” near which we happened to be standing.
I hesitated a moment. “I myself will write a little story about it, and then you’ll see.”
But she never saw; she had never seen anything, and she passed away with her fine blindness unimpaired. Her son published every scrap of scribbled paper that could be extracted from her table-drawers, and his sister quarrelled with him mortally about the proceeds, which showed that she only wanted a pretext, for they cannot have been great. I don’t know what Leolin lives upon, unless it be on a queer lady many years older than himself, whom he lately married. The last time I met him he said to me with his infuriating smile: “Don’t you think we can go a little further still—just a little?” He really goes too far.
