Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

II

           

           Yes:hehadseenherslipby—herecalleditnow—ashedasheduptothedrawing-roominquestofLadyUlrica.Thethoughtmadehimstealalongerlook.HowcouldsuchafacehavebeenmergedintheMurrettmob?Itsfugitiveslantinglines,thatlentthemselvestoallmanneroftendertiltsandforeshortenings,hadthefreakishgraceofsomeyoungheadoftheItaliancomedy.Thehairstoodupfromherforeheadinaboyishelf-lock,anditscolourmatchedherauburneyesfleckedwithblack,andthelittlebrownspotonhercheek,betweentheearthatwasmeanttohavearosebehinditandthechinthatshouldhaverestedonaruff.Whenshesmiled,theleftcornerofhermouthwentupalittlehigherthantheright;andhersmilebeganinhereyesandrandowntoherlipsintwolinesoflight.HehaddashedpastthattoreachLadyUlricaCrispin!

           “Butofcourseyouwouldn’trememberme,”shewassaying.“MynameisViner—SophyViner.”

           Notrememberher?Butofcoursehedid!Hewasgenuinelysureofitnow.“You’reMrs.Murrett’sniece,”hedeclared.

           Sheshookherhead.“No;noteventhat.Onlyherreader.”

           “Herreader?Doyoumeantosaysheeverreads?”

           MissVinerenjoyedhiswonder.“Dear,no!ButIwrotenotes,andmadeupthevisiting-book,andwalkedthedogs,andsawboresforher.”

           Darrowgroaned.“Thatmusthavebeenratherbad!”

           “Yes;butnothinglikeasbadasbeingherniece.”

           “ThatIcanwellbelieve.I’mgladtohear,”headded,“thatyouputitallinthepasttense.

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