The Eye of Love by Margery Sharp Read Free Book Online

just for us ,” said Miranda, “before we tell everyone … To you and me!”
    Kissing her had been like kissing a sea-horse. Mr Gibson knocked back his drink thankfully. (“I shall turn into a sozzler,” thought Mr Gibson—dispassionate as a physician diagnosing the course of a disease.) For the moment, however, and although he’d had no lunch, he wasn’t intoxicated. He still had himself well in hand—which considering Miranda’s next choice of topic was fortunate.
    Champagne, it seemed, turned Miranda into a woman of the world. With humorous understanding—
    â€œOf course you have a mistress? Obviously,” said Miranda Joyce.
    It was fortunate that Mr Gibson had himself in hand. He still couldn’t control his blood. A long-disused system of arteries and capillaries rushed blood to his cheeks, up to his forehead, up to the roots of his hair. He blushed like a boy.
    â€œMy dear Harry, I don’t mind!” cried Miss Joyce. “A passionate man like you—why not?”
    â€œWho told you?” shouted Harry Gibson.
    Miss Joyce looked pleasurably frightened.
    â€œNo one in so many words. But away two nights each week—! Your mother told Aunt Beatrice that . Of course you have a mistress. I’m sure I could find out all about her, or Dadda could, if I was inquisitive!”
    Mr Gibson perceived a possible course of action at all costs to be prevented.
    â€œSince you know so much already—yes,” said Mr Gibson. (Though how far from the truth the literal truth! How far from the truth of King Hal and his Spanish rose!) “Since you know so much already—yes,” said Harry Gibson. “Do I need to tell you also that it’s all washed up?”
    A bony sea-horse kiss rewarded him. Unfortunately the sea-horse was still being a woman of the world.
    â€œOf course she’s been provided for?”
    Mr Gibson’s control went. So did all his carefully-cultivated British slang, giving place to an older habit of speech, the speech he’d heard between his parents when he was a young boy.
    â€œAnd out of what, tell me please, would I provide for her?” shouted Mr Gibson. “You know, or at least your father does, my situation! How could I provide for a dog even?”
    â€œYou are passionate,” confirmed Miss Joyce. “She must be behaving very well. Would it be kind if I went to see her?”
    â€œIf you do,” cried Mr Gibson, “if you try to, I will never, this I swear, look at you or speak to you again. Is that understood, woman?”
    â€œPassionate and masterful,” murmured Miss Joyce. “Oh, Harry, I feel I’ve never known you before!”
    3
    Of the rest of the evening, of the intimate family supper that followed, Mr Gibson retained little subsequent memory. He still wasn’t intoxicated, but he was bushed. He told Miranda’s Aunt Beatrice the same (unsuitable) funny story four separate times. The arrival on scene of his mother astonished him more than it should have done. He wanted to know why she’d changed her mind about not coming. That she’d come after all, he argued, made nonsense of sending her best love; he showed unexpected heat on the point. There was in fact a moment after supper when old Joyce, Miranda’s father, led him away to a private sanctum—and then looked uneasily at the decanters there. “I am perfectly sober,” stated Harry Gibson pugnaciously. “That’s what I thought,” agreed Mr Joyce. “You’ll find a chinchilla coat in stock worth two thousand!” shouted Harry Gibson. “Don’t I know it, son?” agreed Mr Joyce placatively. “What did you call me?” asked Harry Gibson—and laughed like a drain.
    He then returned to the drawing-room and demanded that Miranda should play the piano. As soon as the first piece was finished, he demanded another. He kept her at the piano for one