Лето

           Hepassedoutofthegate,andhisfigure,stoopingandheavy,recededslowlyupthestreet.

           Forawhilesheremainedwherehehadlefther.Shewasstilltremblingwiththehumiliationofhislastwords,whichrangsoloudinherearsthatitseemedasthoughtheymustechothroughthevillage,proclaimingheracreaturetolendherselftosuchvilesuggestions.Hershameweighedonherlikeaphysicaloppression:theroofandwallsseemedtobeclosinginonher,andshewasseizedbytheimpulsetogetaway,undertheopensky,wheretherewouldberoomtobreathe.Shewenttothefrontdoor,andasshedidsoLuciusHarneyopenedit.

           Helookedgraverandlessconfidentthanusual,andforamomentortwoneitherofthemspoke.Thenheheldouthishand.“Areyougoingout?”heasked.“MayIcomein?”

           Herheartwasbeatingsoviolentlythatshewasafraidtospeak,andstoodlookingathimwithtear-dilatedeyes;thenshebecameawareofwhathersilencemustbetray,andsaidquickly:“Yes:comein.”

           Sheledthewayintothedining-room,andtheysatdownonoppositesidesofthetable,thecruet-standandjapannedbread-basketbetweenthem.Harneyhadlaidhisstrawhatonthetable,andashesatthere,inhiseasy-lookingsummerclothes,abrowntieknottedunderhisflannelcollar,andhissmoothbrownhairbrushedbackfromhisforehead,shepicturedhim,asshehadseenhimthenightbefore,lyingonhisbed,withthetossedlocksfallingintohiseyes,andhisbarethroatrisingoutofhisunbuttonedshirt.Hehadneverseemedsoremoteasatthemomentwhenthatvisionflashedthroughhermind.