A gentle kind faced woman in a hand-knitted jumper said wistfully, "Don't you agree, Mr. Dexter, that no one, no one has written about feelings so poetically as Virginia Woolf? in prose I mean."
Crabbin whispered, "You might say something about the stream of consciousness."
"Stream of what?"
A note of despair came into Crabbin's voice, "Please, Mr. Dexter, these people are your genuine admirers. They want to hear your views. If you knew how they have besieged the Society."
An elderly Austrian said, "Is there any writer in England today of the stature of the late John Galsworthy?"
There was an outburst of angry twittering in which the names of Du Maurier, Priestley and somebody called Layman were flung to and fro. Martins sat gloomily back and saw again the snow, the stretcher, the desperate face of Frau Koch. He thought: if I had never returned, if I had never asked questions, would that little man still be alive? How had he benefited Harry by supplying another victim—a victim to assuage the fear of whom, Herr Kurtz, Cooler (he could not believe that), Dr. Winkler? Not one of them seemed adequate to the drab gruesome crime in the basement: he could hear the child saying: "I saw the blood on the coke," and somebody turned towards him a blank face without features, a grey plasticine egg, the third man.
Martins could not have said how he got through the rest of the discussion: perhaps Crabbin took the brunt: perhaps he was helped by some of the audience who got into an animated discussion about the film version of a popular American novel. He remembered very little more before Crabbin was making a final speech in his honour. Then one of the young men led him to a table stacked with books and asked him to sign them. "We have only allowed each member one book."
"What have I got to do?"
"Just a signature. That's all they expect. This is my copy of The Curved Prow. I would be so grateful if you'd just write a little something ..."
Martins took his pen and wrote (Мартинс взял свою ручку и написал): "From B. Dexter (от Б. Декстера), author of The Lone Rider of Santa Fé (автора «Одинокого всадника из Санта-Фе»)," and the young man read the sentence (и молодой человек прочитал предложение) and blotted it with a puzzled expression (и промокнул его с озадаченным выражением /лица/). As Martins sat down and started signing Benjamin Dexter's title pages (когда Мартинс сел и начал подписывать титульные листы Бенджамина Декстера), he could see in a mirror the young man showing the inscription to Crabbin (он мог видеть в зеркале молодого человека, показывающего надпись Крэббину). Crabbin smiled weakly and stroked his chin (Крэббин слабо улыбнулся и погладил свой подбородок), up and down, up and down (вверх и вниз). "B. Dexter, B. Dexter, B. Dexter." Martins wrote rapidly (Мартинс писал быстро)—it was not after all a lie (это не было, в конце концов, ложью). One by one the books were collected by their owners (одна за одной книги были собраны их владельцами): little half sentences of delight and compliment were dropped like curtseys (маленькие полупредложения радости и любезности были обронены, равно как поклоны)—was this what it was to be a writer (неужели именно это и значило быть писателем)? Martins began to feel distinct irritation towards Benjamin Dexter (Мартинс начал испытывать явное раздражение по отношению к Бенджамину Декстеру). The complacent tiring pompous ass (самодовольный, утомительный =