Not that I was denied
many a laugh of suppressed heartiness when Raffles and I were
together. But half our time we very literally saw nothing of each
other. I need not say whose fault that was. He would be quiet; he
was in ridiculous and offensive earnest about his egregious Cure.
Kinglake he would read by the hour together, day and night, by the
hanging lamp, lying up-stairs on the best bed. There was daylight
enough for me in the drawing-room below; and there I would sit
immersed in criminous tomes weakly fascinated until I shivered and
shook in my stocking soles. Often I longed to do something
hysterically desperate, to rouse Raffles and bring the street about
our ears; once I did bring him about mine by striking a single note
on the piano, with the soft pedal down. His neglect of me seemed
wanton at the time. I have long realized that he was only wise to
maintain silence at the expense of perilous amenities, and as fully
justified in those secret and solitary sorties which made bad blood
in my veins. He was far cleverer than I at getting in and out; but
even had I been his match for stealth and wariness, my company
would have doubled every risk.
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