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.

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