Лето

           Foraninstanttheoldimpulseofflightsweptthroughher;butitwasonlytheliftofabrokenwing.Sheheardthedooropenbehindher,andMr.Royallcamein.

           Hehadgonetothebarber’stobeshaved,andhisshaggygreyhairhadbeentrimmedandsmoothed.Hemovedstronglyandquickly,squaringhisshouldersandcarryinghisheadhigh,asifhedidnotwanttopassunnoticed.

           “Whatareyoudoinginthedark?”hecalledoutinacheerfulvoice.Charitymadenoanswer.Hewentuptothewindowtodrawtheblind,andputtinghisfingeronthewallfloodedtheroomwithablazeoflightfromthecentralchandelier.Inthisunfamiliarilluminationhusbandandwifefacedeachotherawkwardlyforamoment;thenMr.Royallsaid:“We’llstepdownandhavesomesupper,ifyousayso.”

           Thethoughtoffoodfilledherwithrepugnance;butnotdaringtoconfessitshesmoothedherhairandfollowedhimtothelift.

           Anhourlater,comingoutoftheglareofthedining-room,shewaitedinthemarble-panelledhallwhileMr.Royall,beforethebrasslatticeofoneofthecornercounters,selectedacigarandboughtaneveningpaper.Menwerelounginginrockingchairsundertheblazingchandeliers,travellerscomingandgoing,bellsringing,portersshufflingbywithluggage.OverMr.Royall’sshoulder,asheleanedagainstthecounter,agirlwithherhairpuffedhighsmirkedandnoddedatadapperdrummerwhowasgettinghiskeyatthedeskacrossthehall.

           Charitystoodamongthesecross-currentsoflifeasmotionlessandinertasifshehadbeenoneofthetablesscrewedtothemarblefloor.