Лето
I
“Oh,Isay!”heexclaimed;andlookingupshesawthathehaddrawnouthishandkerchiefandwascarefullywipingtheedgesofthebookinhishand.Theactionstruckherasanunwarrantedcriticismonhercareofthebooks,andshesaidirritably:“It’snotmyfaultifthey’redirty.”
Heturnedaroundandlookedatherwithrevivinginterest.“Ah—thenyou’renotthelibrarian?”
“OfcourseIam;butIcan’tdustallthesebooks.Besides,nobodyeverlooksatthem,nowMissHatchard’stoolametocomeround.”
“No,Isupposenot.”Helaiddownthebookhehadbeenwiping,andstoodconsideringherinsilence.ShewonderedifMissHatchardhadsenthimroundtopryintothewaythelibrarywaslookedafter,andthesuspicionincreasedherresentment.“Isawyougoingintoherhousejustnow,didn’tI?”sheasked,withtheNewEnglandavoidanceofthepropername.Shewasdeterminedtofindoutwhyhewaspokingaboutamongherbooks.
“MissHatchard’shouse?Yes—she’smycousinandI’mstayingthere,”theyoungmananswered;adding,asiftodisarmavisibledistrust:“MynameisHarney—LuciusHarney.Shemayhavespokenofme.”
“No,shehasn’t,”saidCharity,wishingshecouldhavesaid:“Yes,shehas.”
“Oh,well——”saidMissHatchard’scousinwithalaugh;andafteranotherpause,duringwhichitoccurredtoCharitythatheranswerhadnotbeenencouraging,heremarked:“Youdon’tseemstrongonarchitecture.”
Herbewildermentwascomplete:themoreshewishedtoappeartounderstandhimthemoreunintelligiblehisremarksbecame.
