Mark Page #2

"Mark" by Hector Hugh Munro, better known by his pen name Saki, is a short story that reflects the author's signature wit and keen social observations. The narrative revolves around themes of innocence, cunning, and the unexpected consequences of seemingly simple actions. Through the interactions of its characters, Saki explores the nuances of human behavior and the clash between appearances and reality, ultimately delivering a twist that highlights the irony and unpredictability of life. The story showcases Saki's sharp prose and dark humor, making it a compelling read for fans of early 20th-century literature.

• Short story

								

the mauve and purple billows of heather, lit up here and there with the
glowing yellow of gorse and broom, and edged round with the delicate
greys and silver and green of the young birch trees.  Tiny blue and brown
butterflies fluttered above the fronds of heather, revelling in the
sunlight, and overhead the larks were singing as only larks can sing.  It
was a day when all Nature--"

"In Right Here you have full information on all branches of Nature
study," broke in the bookagent, with a tired note sounding in his voice
for the first time; "forestry, insect life, bird migration, reclamation
of waste lands.  As I was saying, no man who has to deal with the varied
interests of life--"

"I wonder if you would care for one of my earlier books, The Reluctance
of Lady Cullumpton," said Mellowkent, hunting again through the
bookshelf; "some people consider it my best novel.  Ah, here it is.  I
see there are one or two spots on the cover, so I won't ask more than
three-and-ninepence for it.  Do let me read you how it opens:

"'Beatrice Lady Cullumpton entered the long, dimly-lit drawing-room, her
eyes blazing with a hope that she guessed to be groundless, her lips
trembling with a fear that she could not disguise.  In her hand she
carried a small fan, a fragile toy of lace and satinwood.  Something
snapped as she entered the room; she had crushed the fan into a dozen
pieces.'

"There, what do you think of that for an opening?  It tells you at once
that there's something afoot."

"I don't read novels," said Caiaphas sullenly.

"But just think what a resource they are," exclaimed the author, "on long
winter evenings, or perhaps when you are laid up with a strained ankle--a
thing that might happen to any one; or if you were staying in a house-
party with persistent wet weather and a stupid hostess and insufferably
dull fellow-guests, you would just make an excuse that you had letters to
write, go to your room, light a cigarette, and for three-and-ninepence
you could plunge into the society of Beatrice Lady Cullumpton and her
set.  No one ought to travel without one or two of my novels in their
luggage as a stand-by.  A friend of mine said only the other day that he
would as soon think of going into the tropics without quinine as of going
on a visit without a couple of Mark Mellowkents in his kit-bag.  Perhaps
sensation is more in your line.  I wonder if I've got a copy of The
Python's Kiss."

Caiaphas did not wait to be tempted with selections from that thrilling
work of fiction.  With a muttered remark about having no time to waste on
monkey-talk, he gathered up his slighted volume and departed.  He made no
audible reply to Mellowkent's cheerful "Good morning," but the latter
fancied that a look of respectful hatred flickered in the cold grey eyes.
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