Пробный камень
I
Itwasonlywhenhecameonsomethingthatbelongedtoherthathefeltasuddenrenewaloftheoldfeeling,thestrangedualimpulsethatdrewhimtohervoicebutdrovehimfromherhand,sothatevennow,atsightofanythingshehadtouched,hisheartcontractedpainfully.Ithappenedseldomnowadays.Herlittlepresents,onebyone,haddisappearedfromhisrooms,andherletters,keptfromsomeunacknowledgedpuerilevanityinthepossessionofsuchtreasures,seldomcamebeneathhishand....
“Herletterswillbeofspecialvalue—”Herletters!Why,hemusthavehundredsofthem—enoughtofillavolume.Sometimesitusedtoseemtohimthattheycamewitheverypost—heusedtoavoidlookinginhisletter-boxwhenhecamehometohisrooms—butherwritingseemedtospringoutathimasheputhiskeyinthedoor—.
Hestoodupandstrolledintotheotherroom.Hollingsworth,loungingawayfromthewindow,hadjoinedhimselftoalanguidlyconvivialgroupofmentowhom,inphrasesashaltingasthoughtheystruggledtodefineanultimateidea,hewasexpoundingthecursednuisanceoflivinginaholewithsuchadamnedclimatethatonehadtogetoutofitbyFebruary,withthecontingentdifficultyoftherebeingnoplacetotakeone’syachttoinwinterbutthatotherplayed-outhole,theRiviera.FromtheoutskirtsofthisgroupGlennardwanderedtoanother,whereavoiceasdifferentaspossiblefromHollingsworth’scolorlessorgandominatedanothercircleoflanguidlisteners.
