"Mary Stewart - Wildfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stewart Mary)

She showed a spark of interest. "Really? Yes, now you mention it, he does sit every night poring over
maps and things, or glued to the radio listening to this Everest climb they're making."

"That's who it is, then. He wrote a book once on Nanga Parbat."

"Oh?" said Marcia, losing interest. "Well, he goes round with another man, a queer little type called Hubert
Hay. I don't think they came together, but I gather Hay's a writer as well. He's little and round and quite,
quite sorbo."

"Sorbo?"

"Yes. Unsquashable."

"I see. But what an odd word. Sorbo... is it Italian?"

She gave a charming little choke of laughter. "My God, but that dates me, doesn't it? I'll have to watch
myself. No, darling, it's not Italian. Some way back, in the thirties, when you were in your pram, they sold
unsquashable rubber balls for children. Sorbo Bouncers, they were called."

"And you used to play with them?"

"Darling," said Marcia again. "But how sweet of you. .. . Anyway, the little man's definitely sorbo in
nature and appearance, and wears fancy waistcoats. ThereтАЩs another man whose name I don't know, who
got here last night. I've a feeling he writes, too."

"Good heavens."

"I know. Just a galaxy of talent, haven't we? Though probably none of them are any good. Sorbo is
definitely not. But this chap looks as though he might beтАФ:all dark and damn-your-eyes," said Marcia
poetically, then gloomed at her gin. "OnlyтАФhe fishes, too."

"It sounds a very intriguing collection of people," I said.
 "Doesn't it?" she said without conviction. "Oh, and there's an aged lady who I think is Cowdray-Simpson's
mother and who knits all the time, my dear, in -the most ghastly colors. And three youths with bare knees
who camp near the river and come in for meals and go about with hammers and sickles and thingsтАФ"

"Geology students, I'll bet," I said. "And I rather doubt the sickles. There's only one thing for it, you know.
You'll have to take up fishing yourself. I'm going to. I'm told it's soothing for the nerves."

She shot me a look of horror mingled with respect. "My God! How marvellous of you! ButтАФ" Then her
gaze fell on my left hand, and she nodded. "I might have known. You're married. I suppose he makes you.
Now, if that wretched Mrs. CorriganтАФ"

"I'm not married," I said.

She caught herself. "Oh, sorry, IтАФ"

"Divorced."