After Holbein by Edith Wharton

Author:Edith Wharton [Wharton, Edith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781443447713
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2015-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

IV

Anson Warley, who had always prided himself on his equable temper, was conscious of being on edge that evening. But it was an irritability which did not frighten him (in spite of what those doctors always said about the importance of keeping calm) because he knew it was due merely to the unusual lucidity of his mind. He was in fact feeling uncommonly well, his brain clear and all his perceptions so alert that he could positively hear the thoughts passing through his manservant’s mind on the other side of the door, as Filmore grudgingly laid out the evening clothes.

Smiling at the man’s obstinacy, he thought: “I shall have to tell them tonight that Filmore thinks I’m no longer fit to go into society.” It was always pleasant to hear the incredulous laugh with which his younger friends received any allusion to his supposed senility. “What, you? Well, that’s a good one!” And he thought it was, himself.

And then, the moment he was in his bedroom, dressing, the sight of Filmore made him lose his temper again. “No; not those studs, confound it. The black onyx ones—haven’t I told you a hundred times? Lost them, I suppose? Sent them to the wash again in a soiled shirt? That it?” He laughed nervously, and sitting down before his dressing table began to brush back his hair with short angry strokes.

“Above all,” he shouted out suddenly, “don’t stand there staring at me as if you were watching to see exactly at what minute to telephone for the undertaker!”

“The under—? Oh, sir!” gasped Filmore.

“The—the—damn it, are you deaf too? Who said undertaker? I said taxi; can’t you hear what I say?”

“You want me to call a taxi, sir?”

“No; I don’t. I’ve already told you so. I’m going to walk.” Warley straightened his tie, rose and held out his arms towards his dress coat.

“It’s bitter cold, sir; better let me call a taxi all the same.”

Warley gave a short laugh. “Out with it, now! What you’d really like to suggest is that I should telephone to say I can’t dine out. You’d scramble me some eggs instead, eh?”

“I wish you would stay in, sir. There’s eggs in the house.”

“My overcoat,” snapped Warley.

“Or else let me call a taxi; now do, sir.”

Warley slipped his arms into his overcoat, tapped his chest to see if his watch (the thin evening watch) and his notecase were in their proper pockets, turned back to put a dash of lavender on his handkerchief, and walked with stiff quick steps toward the front door of his flat.

Filmore, abashed, preceded him to ring for the lift; and then, as it quivered upward through the long shaft, said again: “It’s a bitter cold night, sir; and you’ve had a good deal of exercise today.”

Warley levelled a contemptuous glance at him. “Daresay that’s why I’m feeling so fit,” he retorted as he entered the lift.

It was bitter cold; the icy air hit him in the chest when he stepped out of the overheated building, and he halted on the doorstep and took a long breath.

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