Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XI

           Then,suddenly,shefeltthatshewantednolessthanthewholeofherhappiness.

           “‘Again’?Butwasn’tityou,thelasttime——?”

           Shepaused,thetremorinherofPsycheholdingupthelamp.Butintheinterrogativelightofherpausehercompanion’sfeaturesunderwentnochange.

           “Thelasttime?Lastspring?Butitwasyouwho—forthebestofreasons,asyou’vetoldme—turnedmebackfromyourverydoorlastspring!”

           Shesawthathewasgood-humouredlyreadyto“threshout,”forhersentimentalsatisfaction,aquestionwhich,forhisown,Timehadsoconclusivelydealtwith;andthesenseofhisreadinessreassuredher.

           “IwroteassoonasIcould,”sherejoined.“Iexplainedthedelayandaskedyoutocome.Andyouneverevenansweredmyletter.”

           “Itwasimpossibletocomethen.Ihadtogobacktomypost.”

           “Andimpossibletowriteandtellmeso?”

           “Yourletterwasalongtimecoming.Ihadwaitedaweek—tendays.Ihadsomeexcuseforthinking,whenitcame,thatyouwereinnogreathurryforananswer.”

           “Youthoughtthat—really—afterreadingit?”

           “Ithoughtit.”

           Herheartleapeduptoherthroat.“Thenwhyareyouheretoday?”

           Heturnedonherwithaquicklookofwonder.“Godknows—ifyoucanaskmethat!”

           “YouseeIwasrighttosayIdidn’tunderstand.”

           Hestoodupabruptlyandstoodfacingher,blockingtheviewovertheriverandthecheckeredslopes.“PerhapsImightsaysotoo.”

           “No,no:wemustneitherofushaveanyreasonforsayingitagain.”Shelookedathimgravely.

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