Лето
VII
Royallsatatherside,hischairtiltedback,hisbroadblackbootswithside-elasticsrestingagainstthelowerbaroftherailings.Hisrumpledgreyhairstoodupabovehisforeheadlikethecrestofanangrybird,andtheleather-brownofhisveinedcheekswasblotchedwithred.Charityknewthatthoseredspotswerethesignsofacomingexplosion.
Suddenlyhesaid:“Where’ssupper?HasVerenaMarshslippedupagainonhersoda-biscuits?”
Charitythrewastartledglanceathim.“Ipresumeshe’swaitingforMr.Harney.”
“Mr.Harney,isshe?She’dbetterdishup,then.Heain’tcoming.”Hestoodup,walkedtothedoor,andcalledout,inthepitchnecessarytopenetratetheoldwoman’stympanum:“Getalongwiththesupper,Verena.”
Charitywastremblingwithapprehension.Somethinghadhappened—shewassureofitnow—andMr.Royallknewwhatitwas.Butnotfortheworldwouldshehavegratifiedhimbyshowingheranxiety.Shetookherusualplace,andheseatedhimselfopposite,andpouredoutastrongcupofteabeforepassingherthetea-pot.Verenabroughtsomescrambledeggs,andhepiledhisplatewiththem.“Ain’tyougoingtotakeany?”heasked.Charityrousedherselfandbegantoeat.
ThetonewithwhichMr.Royallhadsaid“He’snotcoming”seemedtoherfullofanominoussatisfaction.ShesawthathehadsuddenlybeguntohateLuciusHarney,andguessedherselftobethecauseofthischangeoffeeling.
