Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

XX

           

           Totherightofthedrive,underaclumpoftrees,alittlestuccopavilioncrownedbyabalustraderoseonarchesofmoulderingbrickoveraflightofstepsthatleddowntoaspring.Otherstepscurveduptoadoorabove.Darrowmountedthese,andopeningthedoorenteredasmallcircularroomhungwithloosenedstripsofpaintedpaperwhereonspectrallyfadedMandarinsexecutedelongatedgestures.Someblackandgoldchairswithstrawseatsandanunsteadytableofcrackedlacquerstoodonthefloorofred-glazedtile.

           Sophyhadfollowedhimwithoutcomment.Heclosedthedoorafterher,andshestoodmotionless,asthoughwaitingforhimtospeak.

           “Nowwecantalkquietly,”hesaid,lookingatherwithasmileintowhichhetriedtoputanintentionofthefrankestfriendliness.

           Shemerelyrepeated:“Ican’tthinkwhatyoucanhavetosay.”

           Hervoicehadlostthenoteofhalf-wistfulconfidenceonwhichtheirtalkofthepreviousdayhadclosed,andshelookedathimwithakindofpalehostility.Hertonemadeitevidentthathistaskwouldbedifficult,butitdidnotshakehisresolvetogoon.Hesatdown,andmechanicallyshefollowedhisexample.Thetablewasbetweenthemandsherestedherarmsonitscrackededgeandherchinonherinterlockedhands.Helookedatherandshegavehimbackhislook.

           “Haveyounothingtosaytome?”heaskedatlength.

           Afaintsmilelifted,intherememberedway,theleftcornerofhernarrowedlips.

           “Aboutmymarriage?”

           “Aboutyourmarriage.”

           Shecontinuedtoconsiderhimbetweenhalf-drawnlids.“WhatcanIsaythatMrs.

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