The Naive and Sentimental Lover by John le Carré Read Free Book Online

unexpected guest.

    â€œI’m so sorry about the smoke,” said Helen.
    â€œOh it’s quite all right,” said Cassidy restraining himself with difficulty from wiping away a tear. “I rather like it actually. A wood fire is one of the things we just can’t buy in London. Not at any price I’m afraid.”
    â€œIt’s all my own fault,” Shamus confessed. “We ran out of firewood so I sawed up the table.”
    Shamus and Cassidy laughed loudly at this good joke and Helen after a moment’s doubt joined in. Her laugh, he noticed with approval, was modest and admiring; he did not care for women’s humour as a rule, fearing it to be directed against himself, but Helen’s was different, he could tell: she knew her place and laughed only with the men.
    â€œNow there’s a terrible thing about mahogany.” Leaping to his feet, Shamus wheeled away to where the bottle stood. “It just won’t bloody burn like the lower-class woods. It positively resists martyrdom. Now I count that very bad manners indeed, don’t you? I mean at a certain point we should all go gentle into that good night, don’t you think so, Cassidy?”
    Though the question was facetious; Shamus put it with great earnestness, and waited motionless until he had his answer.
    â€œOh rather,” said Cassidy.
    â€œHe agrees,” said Shamus, with apparent relief. “Helen, he agrees.”
    â€œOf course he does,” said Helen. “He’s being polite.” She leaned across to him. “It’s weeks since he met a soul,” she confided in a low voice. “He’s been getting rather desperate, I’m afraid.”
    â€œDon’t give it a thought,” Cassidy murmured. “I love it.”
    Â 
    â€œHey Cassidy, tell her about your Bentley.” Shamus’ brogue was all over the words: the drink had brought it to full flower. “Hear that, Helen? Cassidy’s got a Bentley, a dirty big long one with a silver tip, haven’t you lover?”
    â€œHave you really?” said Helen over the top of her glass. “Gosh.”
    â€œWell not new of course.”
    â€œBut isn’t that rather a good thing? I mean aren’t the old ones better in lots of ways?”
    â€œOh absolutely, well in my judgment anyway,” said Cassidy. “The pre-sixty-three models were a much superior job. Well certainly this one has turned out pretty well.”
    Before he knew it, with only the smallest prompting from Shamus, he was telling her the whole story, how he had been driving through Sevenoaks in his Mercedes—he’d had a Merc in those days, very functional cars of course, but no real handwriting if they knew what he meant—and had spotted a Bentley in the showroom of Caffyns.
    â€œIn Sevenoaks, hear that?” Shamus called. “Fancy buying a Bentley in Sevenoaks. Jesus.”
    â€œBut that’s half the fun of it,” Cassidy insisted. “Some of the very finest models come from as far away as India. Maharajahs bought them for safaris.”
    â€œHey, lover.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYou’re not a maharajah yourself by any chance?”
    â€œI’m afraid not.”
    â€œOnly in this sort of light you can’t always see the colour of a person’s skin. Are you a Catholic then?”
    â€œNo,” said Cassidy pleasantly. “Wrong again.”
    â€œBut you are holy?” he insisted, returning to an earlier theme. “You do worship? ”
    â€œWell,” said Cassidy doubtfully, “Christmas and Easter, you know the kind of thing.”
    â€œWould you call yourself a New Testament man?”
    â€œPlease go on,” said Helen. “I’m riveted.”
    â€œOr would you say you were more in favour of the barbaric and untrammelled qualities of the Ancient Jews?”
    â€œWell . . . neither or both I suppose.”
    â€œYou see this fellow Flaherty in