"Wells, H G - Soul Of A Bishop" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wells H G)

He groaned aloud. He and his reflection eyed one another in
mutual despair.

There came before his memory the image of a boy's face, a
swarthy little boy, grinning, grinning with a horrible
knowingness and pointing his finger--an accusing finger. It had
been the most exasperating, humiliating, and shameful incident in
the bishop's career. It was the afternoon for his fortnightly
address to the Shop-girls' Church Association, and he had been
seized with a panic fear, entirely irrational and unjustifiable,
that he would not be able to deliver the address. The fear had
arisen after lunch, had gripped his mind, and then as now had
come the thought, "If only I could smoke!" And he had smoked. It
seemed better to break a vow than fail the Association. He had
fallen to the temptation with a completeness that now filled him
with shame and horror. He had stalked Dunk, his valet-butler, out
of the dining-room, had affected to need a book from the
book-case
beyond the sideboard, had gone insincerely to the sideboard
humming "From Greenland's icy mountains," and then, glancing over
his shoulder, had stolen one of his own cigarettes, one of the
fatter sort. With this and his bedroom matches he had gone off to
the bottom of the garden among the laurels, looked everywhere
except above the wall to be sure that he was alone, and at last
lit up, only as he raised his eyes in gratitude for the first
blissful inhalation to discover that dreadful little boy peeping
at him from the crotch in the yew-tree in the next garden. As
though God had sent him to be a witness!

Their eyes had met. The bishop recalled with an agonized
distinctness every moment, every error, of that shameful
encounter. He had been too surprised to conceal the state of
affairs from the pitiless scrutiny of those youthful eyes. He had
instantly made as if to put the cigarette behind his back, and
then as frankly dropped it....

His soul would not be more naked at the resurrection. The
little boy had stared, realized the state of affairs slowly but
surely, pointed his finger....

Never had two human beings understood each other more
completely.

A dirty little boy! Capable no doubt of a thousand kindred
scoundrelisms.

It seemed ages before the conscience-stricken bishop could tear
himself from the spot and walk back, with such a pretence of
dignity as he could muster, to the house.