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I rubbed my eyes and massaged my temples
with pronated finger-tips. Then I fumbled two
aspirin tablets into my mouth : Noel Coward’s
King Charles’s Head. I had a very bad head. My
vis-à-vis hadn’t a bad head, now I came to
consider it, bowed over the documents. It is a
very ungentlemanly thing to read a private
cigarette case. I became a trifle abstracted.
What, I wondered, would he have said about an
abstracted will? He might answer to the same
name as the man who sang : “Ah, are you
digging on my grave?” But a softer fellow I had
rarely seen. On velvet, yes, on velvet I would
have trusted him ; but not on cinders, by no
means on cinders. Yet the keen eyes bent like
small topaz searchlights over the writing. I
would get, I felt, what I wanted from this man.
But then I suddenly remembered the words of
the poet:

The golden one is gone from the banquets,
She, beloved of Atimetus,
The swallow, the bright Homonoea. 

I wondered if I should succeed in hurting the 
girl. But think of her no more. The will was 
there all right. And the wonderful hands at the 
opposite side of the table were at work with a 
caseful of strange pens. I sat quite still ; neither 
in life nor letters will I consent to jump about. 
I begin at the beginning, even if you think it 
prosy of me to say so, and go straight through 
to the end. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a 
handbag, whether it had handles or not, seems 
to me to display a contempt for the ordinary 
decencies of family life that reminds one of the 
worst excesses of the French Revolution. The 
man had certainly got into his stride at last. The 
fellow seemed absorbed. It is a marvellous gift, 
I always think. He could undoubtedly have 
written, if hed had a mind, like a Chesterton or 
a Camoens. 

I rubbed my eyes and massaged my temples
with pronated finger-tips. Then I fumbled two
aspirin tablets into my mouth : Noel Coward’s
King Charles’s Head. I had a very bad head. My
vis-à-vis hadn’t a bad head, now I came to
consider it, bowed over the documents. It is a
very ungentlemanly thing to read a private
cigarette case. I became a trifle abstracted.
What, I wondered, would he have said about an
abstracted will? He might answer to the same
name as the man who sang : “Ah, are you
digging on my grave?” But a softer fellow I had
rarely seen. On velvet, yes, on velvet I would
have trusted him ; but not on cinders, by no
means on cinders. Yet the keen eyes bent like
small topaz searchlights over the writing. I
would get, I felt, what I wanted from this man.
But then I suddenly remembered the words of
the poet :
The golden one is gone from the banquets,
She, beloved of Atimetus,
The swallow, the bright Homonoea. 

I wondered if I should succeed in hurting the 
girl. But think of her no more. The will was 
there all right. And the wonderful hands at the 
opposite side of the table were at work with a 
caseful of strange pens. I sat quite still ; neither 
in life nor letters will I consent to jump about. 
I begin at the beginning, even if you think it 
prosy of me to say so, and go straight through 
to the end. To be born, or at any rate bred, in a 
handbag, whether it had handles or not, seems 
to me to display a contempt for the ordinary 
decencies of family life that reminds one of the 
worst excesses of the French Revolution. The 
man had certainly got into his stride at last. The 
fellow seemed absorbed. It is a marvellous gift, 
I always think. He could undoubtedly have 
written, if hed had a mind, like a Chesterton or 
a Camoens. 

Mi stregai gli occhi e massaggiai le tempie con la punta delle dita pronate. Poi misi a tentoni due aspirine in bocca : la testa di re Carlo, l'ossessione di Noel Coward. Io avevo un gran mal di testa. L'uomo di fronte a me no, adesso che lo esaminavo chino sui do-cumenti. E poco corretto leggere in un portasigarette altrui. Mi distrassi. Mi chiesi cosa avrebbe detto di un testamento astratto. Avrebbe potuto rispondere allo stesso cognome dell'uomo che scriveva in versi : Ah, stai scavando sulla mia tomba? Ma di rado avevo visto un uomo più mite. Certo, in tempi di vacche grasse mi sarei fidato di lui, ma, se i bovini fossero dimagriti, avrei cambiato idea. Eppure i suoi occhi acuti erano fissi come piccoli fasci di luce di topazio sullo scritto.
Da quell'uomo, lo sentivo, avrei ottenuto ciò che vole-vo. Poi rammentai all'improvviso le parole del poeta :
La fanciulla dorata è fuggita dal banchetto
Lei, l'amata di Atimeto
La rondine, la luminosa Homonoea.

Mi chiesi se potessi riuscire a far del male alla ragaz-za. Meglio non pensare più a lei. Il testamento era qui. E le mani meravigliose sul lato opposto del tavolo erano al lavoro con un astuccio pieno di strane penne. Rimasi a sedere immobile; nella vita, come nelle lettere, non accetto di saltare qua e là. Comincio dall'inizio anche se pensate che sia banale dirlo, e vado senza fermarmi fino alla fine. Esser nato, o comunque allevato, in una borsa, con maniglie o senza, mi sembra che denoti un disprezzo tale per le norme più elementari della vita di famiglia da ricordarmi le peggiori mostruosità della Rivoluzione francese. Finalmente l'uomo aveva trovato il ritmo giusto. Il ragazzo sembrava assorbito. Un dono meraviglioso, lo penso sempre. Senza dubbio avrebbe potuto scrivere, se avesse avuto la testa, come un Chesterton o un Camoens.