Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XIX

           

           ThefirstthatoffereditselfwasanencounterwithMrs.Leathashedescendedthestairsthenextmorning.Shehadcomedownalreadyhattedandshodforadashtotheparklodge,whereoneofthegatekeeper’schildrenhadhadanaccident.Inhercompactdarkdressshelookedmorethanusuallystraightandslim,andherfaceworethepaleglowittookonatanycallonherenergy:akindofwarriorbrightnessthatmadehersmallhead,withitsstrongchinandclose-boundhair,likethatofanamazoninafrieze.

           Itwastheirfirstmomentalonesinceshehadlefthim,theafternoonbefore,athermother-in-law’sdoor;andafterafewwordsabouttheinjuredchildtheirtalkinevitablyrevertedtoOwen.

           Annaspokewithasmileofher“scene”withMadamedeChantelle,whobelonged,poordear,toagenerationwhen“scenes”(intheladylikeandlachrymalsenseoftheterm)werethetributewhichsensibilitywasexpectedtopaytotheunusual.Theirconversationhadbeen,ineverydetail,soexactlywhatAnnahadforeseenthatithadclearlynotmademuchimpressiononher;butshewaseagertoknowtheresultofDarrow’sencounterwithhermother-in-law.

           “Shetoldmeshe’dsentforyou:shealways‘sendsfor’peopleinemergencies.Thatagain,Isuppose,isdel’epoque.AndfailingAdelaidePainter,whocan’tgetheretillthisafternoon,therewasnoonebutpooryoutoturnto.”

           Sheputitalllightly,withalightnessthatseemedtohistight-strungnervesslightly,undefinablyover-done.

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