Think of England

It rained early the next morning.

Curtis sat at the breakfast table with the other guests.Da Silva was not among them, and he seemed obsessed with staying out of bed.Although Curtis wished that the other party would not show up this time, he still had to talk to the other party, find a way to get the information out, and hand it over to a responsible unit that could accept it and take actual actions.Curtis knew he should get things back on track after that dramatic night, but he didn't mind the delay.After all, orgasming in a man's mouth makes it hard for him to look him in the eye.

Not to mention that he had to greet the Armstrongs with civility.

He was sure the servants had reported last night's events to their master.One or two members of the Armstrong family, if not all of them, knew what had happened between him and Da Silva.This idea makes people sit on pins and needles.The Armstrongs wouldn't reveal their knowledge, of course--if they did, it would mean they were ready to blackmail him.Curtis had made up his mind to deal toughly, and never dragged his feet; but if the Armstrongs were whitewashing, even the most tolerant host would have the right to raise alarms over the rough behavior of his guests in the library, if Sir Hubert To express dissatisfaction with this matter, Curtis had to accept it completely, and even apologized.

Shamed, he went downstairs to breakfast and somewhat blamed da Silva, but so far, the unspoken rules of deafness in the country house seemed to apply here as well.Sir Hubert was genial, Mrs Armstrong was full of life, and she made a mock lament about the rain in the morning and was immediately amused by herself; Lambton and James Armstrong continued to talk like English gentlemen.

The others were too relaxed and freehand, and while eating, Curtis felt that last night was more and more like a dream.He couldn't connect these gregarious, well-bred people with the betrayal, conspiracy, and death in the closet.He could hardly believe any detail of last night's events had it not been for the fact that the tops of his black leather gloves had not shone from the way he had grasped Da Silva's pomaded hair.

Da Silva wanders in midway through their meal.His deep eyes were surrounded by dark circles from insomnia, but his clothes remained impeccable and his hair was pulled back.Curtis wished he would not apply the oil.The image of da Silva's hair falling out last night flashed briefly in his mind, and he shook it off with a hard blink.

He nodded in embarrassment, and the other party responded with a blank expression.

"I'm suggesting to you, Mr. da Silva," said Mrs. Armstrong, in her silvery voice, "that if it clears up in the afternoon, we can take a walk in the limestone cave. It's just a few miles away, and it's magnificent, I think maybe You'll get some inspiration."

"I'm sorry to say no. I loathe subterranean caverns, and my editorial duties call me. Please enjoy your adventures." Da Silva took a piece of smoked fish, clearly not thinking of turning down a lady—or There was something wrong with his mistress' proposal.The other men exchanged "what do you expect an answer" looks at each other.

"Then, before we leave, please show us the game room," Mrs. Armstrong continued. "There are bridge and billiards there. If the weather continues to be bad, we can play a round of charades?"

"Oh, that's great," said Miss Carus excitedly. "My favorite is charades."

Curtis had to glance at Da Silva.He was eating his smoked fish with catlike grace, as if he had nothing more to worry about than picking out the bones.

Charade[1], isn't it.

***

After breakfast, Curtis, Grayling and Holt headed to the billiard room together, but da Silva went with them somehow.James Armstrong and Lambton departed with Miss Carruth and Mrs Grayling, the two ladies laughing amusedly from time to time.Mrs. Armstrong watched her guests off with a smile, but that smile seemed a bit stiff to Curtis.

"Do you play pool, Da Silva?" Holt asked suspiciously.

Da Silva was not offended by the tone. "Although not as skilled as before, I still remember the rules."

"Who are we fighting with whom?" Holt asked.

"I'll fight you," Grayling said hastily, obviously wanting to avoid forming a team with the wrong person.Da Silva curled his lips.

Curtis said: "Then you're on my team, Da Silva."

"Can you play like this?" Da Silva gestured to Curtis's hand as he dusted the club with talcum powder.

"I practice often, don't worry, you can't take advantage of me." After counting the balls into the pocket, he stood up proudly.

"I can't guarantee it," Da Silva replied, aiming forward for the next two balls.

Curtis stood back. When Da Silva manipulated the ball, his mood gradually changed from surprise to admiration.Da Silva's hands are as deft with the cue as he is with a lockpicker, and as he moves deftly around the table, he's clearly seeing the big picture quickly, preparing each shot for the next.Curtis is considered a good player in golf, but he is not good at using strategies. He watched Da Silva's game with admiration from the bottom of his heart.

Da Silva leans forward for a poorly placed ball.A strand of black hair fell loose, and he turned his head and tossed it aside.They all took off their jackets, only wearing vests and shirts. At this time, he rolled up his cuffs to reveal his brown forearms, and bent his body towards the table. Wrap a tight, beautiful buttocks curve.His lips parted slightly in concentration, and a more specific image suddenly flashed in Curtis's mind: he was lying on the pool table, grabbing his black hair, and sending his penis into the inviting mouth——

Curtis heard his own breathing cut off abruptly.Da Silva hit the ball just in time, and he jerked his head up and missed the target.

"Damn it. It's your turn, Curtis."

He sounded purely mad at himself.Curtis nodded stiffly, and then failed with his next shot, and finally lost the game by a huge margin.

"Well, it's pretty good." Holt looked at the two of them, "Can you be as good as a person with healthy hands?"

"It's not bad." Da Silva's smile flashed brightly.

"Really, do you dare to take a gamble?"

"No."

"Not confident enough?"

"exactly the opposite."

"If we want to bet, I'll bet on Dasilva," Curtis suggested, trying to ease the atmosphere, "I've never lost so completely."

"I bet one dollar, it's the opposite." Holt looked at Da Silva with unmistakable sarcasm, "Don't you bet on yourself? Of course, people like you always spend money on the edge of the knife .”

Da Silva's eyes were clouded, but a smile remained on his lips. "Bet more, Curtis, I have to help you out."

"I won't follow." Grayling was a little trembling, "Holt is very powerful."

Holt shrugged modestly, "I still have two tricks."

"Then I bet you'll have to pull out all the stops," da Silva grumbled.

"I'll bet five," Curtis said before anyone could ponder Da Silva's comments.

"You still have a little chance, I really can't bear to win your money. Here," Holt took out a coin to Da Silva and asked him to flip the coin first, "Don't accidentally 'forget' to pay me back. "

Instead of tossing the coin, Da Silva pinched the coin between his thumb and forefinger and let it fall directly onto the table. "you first."

Holt gave him a hostile look before putting away the coin.Da Silva smiled and said, "Use the money you won to buy me a drink, Curtis."

"Really or not, whose money wins," Grayling complained in a low voice.

Hult is highly skilled, and Curtis has seen it before.At first, the two seemed to be evenly matched, and Huot took the game seriously, frowning because of his seriousness.Da Silva didn't interfere with him—you can't accuse him of any lack of athleticism—but when Hurt played, Da Silva's hands on his hips and his slightly tilted head seemed like a dedicated gesture. Want to annoy hot-blooded and easy-going men.In fact, Curtis figured out that this might be his purpose.

When the table was half clear, the bell rang.Da Silva was about to hit the ball when he stood up with an exclamation and lifted the club dramatically. "Another half hour? Oh my goodness, how fast the fun time flies. I've got a lot of work to do, and you know the Muse needs my sacrifice."

"You don't want to quit halfway, do you?" Holt asked.

"Oh my God, how is it possible, but I really don't have time to tease you." Da Silva put talcum powder on the cue again, returned to the table and bent over, this time he emptied the table directly, without any space pole.

All the British men present were dumbfounded.Da Silva moved like a snake, nimble, unhesitating, uncannily quick, his club aiming for the next ball before the previous ball was in the pocket.Except for Holt's harsh breathing, the friction of the ball rolling across the table, and the clashing of ivory, the room was silent.

With the last ball pocketed, Da Silva straightened up. "Okay," he said to Holt, "it's over. Don't 'forget' to pay Curtis' bet, okay?"

He inserted the club back into the barrel, put on his coat carefully, adjusted the cuffs, and walked away slowly.

"I said," Grayling broke the silence, "I'm not mistaken."

"I knew it." Holt's face was flushed, "It's impossible for that man not to cheat."

"Nonsense." Curtis said.

"I'm talking nonsense? Did you see it just now?"

"He's playing with Holt," Grayling said bluntly. "If he wants to, he can beat Holt badly at any time."

Holt glared at him. "He's a cracker, I tell you. That's how they play in the Jewish pool room in the East End—"

Curtis added, "They may play that way, but you can't accuse a guy who won't bet of cheating on you."

"Damn it, I don't understand why you're on his side." Holt looked surprised and hurt by Curtis' counterattack.Curtis was also taken aback by himself, but facts are facts.

"He defeated you in a fair manner, and it has nothing to do with the stakes. It can only be said that his skills are indeed superb, and the rest of us can be a graceful loser." Curtis stopped short; a loser without grace is even uglier.Holt pursed his lips. "Now, do you want to try and win back the five pounds you owe me?"

They played two more rounds, and Curtis lost a lot of the bet Da Silva helped him win.This was somewhat in Holt's wing, but he still looked resentful.Curtis couldn't blame him.

He couldn't blame Da Silva either.Holt didn't say anything outrageous. Perhaps everyone thought that Da Silva was used to sarcastic remarks, after all, he himself had heard enough.But Curtis fought the Boers, and that small band of poorly armed peasants nearly broke the armor of the British Empire, with nothing but unyielding arrogance; The same will was recognized in the eyes.He remembered a Latin saying he had learned in school, Nemomeimpunelacessit.The translation is like a doggerel: fight against me and you'll regret it.

He set out to find the person who occupied his thoughts, and found his target in the first place: the library.Miss Morton and Miss Carruth were there, too, browsing the shelves, while da Silva sat at his desk, his hair combed back meticulously, focused on his work.

Realizing that the ladies were present, Curtis only said: "The match was exciting. You are a formidable opponent."

"Practice makes perfect." Da Silva didn't look up.Before him were two dictionaries and a stack of manuscripts that seemed to be covered with his notes.Curtis took a closer look.The original handwriting is scribbled, and da Silva's annotations are flourishes, but only in drab maroon ink.Curtis narrowed his eyes and carefully read the up and down words.

"Editing Levi's work is not an activity for people to watch." Da Silva kept writing, as if he didn't intend to give Curtis his attention.

"Who's Levi?"

"The leading fragmentist, the greatest surviving poet in Britain." Da Silva considered the words he wrote and crossed them out. He continued, "You'd better not dare to mention Alfred to me. Austin[3]."

"Mr. da Silva!" giggled Fenella Carus. "Mr. Austin is the poet laureate."

"It can be seen how lacking in artistic cultivation that despicable institution is." Da Silva said while writing in clear handwriting on the paper in the direction Curtis was reading, 'see you in the tower in an hour'.He tapped the line of words with a pen to attract Curtis' attention, and after only staying for a few seconds, he erased the message. "Please let me continue to work. I find that the straight military posture hinders my pursuit of the muse."

"I'm sorry to disturb you." Curtis muttered, exchanging helpless glances with Miss Morton next to him.Next, he had to see if the villa provided oilskin raincoats.

[1] Charade is a game of guessing words by hand gestures, and it also means playing on the spot.

[2] A mixed nation formed by descendants of white immigrants from the Netherlands, France and Germany living in South Africa.The etymology is the Dutch word Boer, which means farmer.

[3] Alfred Austin, a British poet and novelist, served as a military reporter during the Franco-Prussian War. In 1883, he served as the chief writer of the National Review. In 1896, he succeeded Tennyson as the poet laureate. He wrote "The Tragedy of Man" and so on.