Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 2
Hewassittingonthebacklesschairinhisaunt’skitchen.Alampwithareflectorhungonthejapannedwallofthefireplaceandbyitslighthisauntwasreadingtheeveningpaperthatlayonherknees.Shelookedalongtimeatasmilingpicturethatwassetinitandsaidmusingly:
—ThebeautifulMabelHunter!
Aringlettedgirlstoodontiptoetopeeratthepictureandsaidsoftly:
—Whatisshein,mud?
—Inapantomime,love.
Thechildleanedherringlettedheadagainsthermother’ssleeve,gazingonthepicture,andmurmuredasiffascinated:
—ThebeautifulMabelHunter!
Asiffascinated,hereyesrestedlonguponthosedemurelytauntingeyesandshemurmureddevotedly:
—Isn’tsheanexquisitecreature?
Andtheboywhocameinfromthestreet,stampingcrookedlyunderhisstoneofcoal,heardherwords.Hedroppedhisloadpromptlyonthefloorandhurriedtohersidetosee.Hemauledtheedgesofthepaperwithhisreddenedandblackenedhands,shoulderingherasideandcomplainingthathecouldnotsee.
Hewassittinginthenarrowbreakfastroomhighupintheolddark-windowedhouse.Thefirelightflickeredonthewallandbeyondthewindowaspectralduskwasgatheringupontheriver.Beforethefireanoldwomanwasbusymakingteaand,asshebustledatthetask,shetoldinalowvoiceofwhatthepriestandthedoctorhadsaid.
