Портрет художника в юности

           Hisheartdanceduponhermovementslikeacorkuponatide.Heheardwhathereyessaidtohimfrombeneaththeircowlandknewthatinsomedimpast,whetherinlifeorrevery,hehadheardtheirtalebefore.Hesawherurgehervanities,herfinedressandsashandlongblackstockings,andknewthathehadyieldedtothemathousandtimes.Yetavoicewithinhimspokeabovethenoiseofhisdancingheart,askinghimwouldhetakehergifttowhichhehadonlytostretchouthishand.AndherememberedthedaywhenheandEileenhadstoodlookingintothehotelgrounds,watchingthewaitersrunningupatrailofbuntingontheflagstaffandthefoxterrierscamperingtoandfroonthesunnylawnandhow,allofasudden,shehadbrokenoutintoapealoflaughterandhadrundowntheslopingcurveofthepath.Now,asthen,hestoodlistlesslyinhisplace,seeminglyatranquilwatcherofthescenebeforehim.

           —Shetoowantsmetocatchholdofher,hethought.That’swhyshecamewithmetothetram.IcouldeasilycatchholdOfherwhenshecomesuptomystep:nobodyislooking.Icouldholdherandkissher.

           Buthedidneither:and,whenhewassittingaloneinthedesertedtram,hetorehisticketintoshredsandstaredgloomilyatthecorrugatedfootboard.

           ***

           Thenextdayhesatathistableinthebareupperroomformanyhours.Beforehimlayanewpen,anewbottleofinkandanewemeraldexercise.