Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

           Hestillfeltthethrobofsurprisewithwhich,amongthestereotypedfacesoftheseason’sdiners,hehadcomeuponherunexpectedface,withthedarkhairbandedabovegraveeyes;eyesinwhichhehadrecognizedeverylittlecurveandshadowashewouldhaverecognized,afterhalfalife-time,thedetailsofaroomhehadplayedinasachild.Andas,intheplumedstarredcrowd,shehadstoodoutforhim,slender,secludedanddifferent,sohehadfelt,theinstanttheirglancesmet,thatheassharplydetachedhimselfforher.Allthatandmorehersmilehadsaid;hadsaidnotmerely“Iremember,”but“Irememberjustwhatyouremember”;almost,indeed,asthoughhermemoryhadaidedhis,herglanceflungbackontheirrecapturedmomentitsmorningbrightness.Certainly,whentheirdistractedAmbassadress—withthecry:“Oh,youknowMrs.Leath?That’sperfect,forGeneralFarnhamhasfailedme”—hadwavedthemtogetherforthemarchtothedining-room,Darrowhadfeltaslightpressureofthearmonhis,apressurefaintlybutunmistakablyemphasizingtheexclamation:“Isn’titwonderful?—InLondon—intheseason—inamob?”

           Littleenough,onthepartofmostwomen;butitwasasignofMrs.Leath’squalitythateverymovement,everysyllable,toldwithher.Evenintheolddays,asanintentgrave-eyedgirl,shehadseldommisplacedherlightstrokes;andDarrow,onmeetingheragain,hadimmediatelyfelthowmuchfinerandsureraninstrumentofexpressionshehadbecome.

           Theireveningtogetherhadbeenalongconfirmationofthisfeeling.