Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XIII

           Fartheroff,themeadowsunrolledasilver-shottissuetothemantlingofmistabovetheriver;andtheautumnstarstrembledoverheadliketheirownreflectionsseenindimwater.

           Helithiscigar,andtheywalkedslowlyupanddowntheflagsinthelanguidair,tillheputanarmabouther,saying:“Youmustn’tstaytillyou’rechilled”;thentheywentbackintotheroomanddrewuptheirchairstothefire.

           Itseemedonlyamomentlaterthatshesaid:“Itmustbeaftereleven,”andstoodupandlookeddownonhim,smilingfaintly.Hesatstill,absorbingthelook,andthinking:“There’llbeeveningsandevenings”—tillshecamenearer,bentoverhim,andwithahandonhisshouldersaid:“Goodnight.”

           Hegottohisfeetandputhisarmsabouther.

           “Goodnight,”heanswered,andheldherfast;andtheygaveeachotheralongkissofpromiseandcommunion.

           Thememoryofitglowedinhimstillashesatoverhiscrumblingfire;butbeneathhisphysicalexultationhefeltacertaingravityofmood.Hishappinesswasinsomesorttherallying-pointofmanyscatteredpurposes.Hesummeditupvaguelybysayingtohimselfthattobelovedbyawomanlikethatmade“allthedifference”...Hewasalittletiredofexperimentingonlife;hewantedto“takealine”,tofollowthingsup,tocentralizeandconcentrate,andproduceresults.

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