The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Чарльз Диккенс
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do you mean by my other good fortune?’
Neville has made his remark in a watchfully advancing, and yet furtive and shy manner, very expressive of that peculiar air already noticed, of being at once hunter and hunted. Edwin has made his retort with an abruptness not at all polite. They stop and interchange a rather heated look.
‘I hope,’ says Neville, ‘there is no offence, Mr. Drood, in my innocently referring to your betrothal?’
‘By George!’ cries Edwin, leading on again at a somewhat quicker pace; ‘everybody in this chattering old Cloisterham refers to it I wonder no public-house has been set up, with my portrait for the sign of The Betrothed’s Head. Or Pussy’s portrait. One or the other.’
‘I am not accountable for Mr. Crisparkle’s mentioning the matter to me, quite openly,’ Neville begins.
‘No; that’s true; you are not,’ Edwin Drood assents.
‘But,’ resumes Neville, ‘I am accountable for mentioning it to you. And I did so, on the supposition that you could not fail to be highly proud of it.’
Now, there are these two curious touches of human nature working the secret springs of this dialogue. Neville Landless is already enough impressed by Little Rosebud, to feel indignant that Edwin Drood (far below her) should hold his prize so lightly. Edwin Drood is already enough impressed by Helena, to feel indignant that Helena’s brother (far below her) should dispose of him so coolly, and put him out of the way so entirely.
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