Лето

           ”Hisglanceexploredthemelancholypenumbraofthelongnarrowroom,restingontheblotchedwalls,thediscolouredrowsofbooks,andthesternrosewooddesksurmountedbytheportraitoftheyoungHonorius.“Ofcourseit’sabadjobtodoanythingwithabuildingjammedagainstahilllikethisridiculousmausoleum:youcouldn’tgetagooddraughtthroughitwithoutblowingaholeinthemountain.Butitcanbeventilatedafterafashion,andthesuncanbeletin:I’llshowyouhowifyoulike....”Thearchitect’spassionforimprovementhadalreadymadehimlosesightofhergrievance,andheliftedhisstickinstructivelytowardthecornice.Buthersilenceseemedtotellhimthatshetooknointerestintheventilationofthelibrary,andturningbacktoherabruptlyheheldoutbothhands.“Lookhere—youdon’tmeanwhatyousaid?Youdon’treallythinkI’ddoanythingtohurtyou?”

           Anewnoteinhisvoicedisarmedher:noonehadeverspokentoherinthattone.

           “Oh,whatDIDyoudoitforthen?”shewailed.Hehadherhandsinhis,andshewasfeelingthesmoothtouchthatshehadimaginedthedaybeforeonthehillside.

           Hepressedherhandslightlyandletthemgo.“Why,tomakethingspleasanterforyouhere;andbetterforthebooks.I’msorryifmycousintwistedaroundwhatIsaid.She’sexcitable,andshelivesontrifles:Ioughttohaverememberedthat.Don’tpunishmebylettingherthinkyoutakeherseriously