Епоха невинності

           Abigbedofembersstillgleamedinthekitchenchimney,underanironpothungfromanancientcrane.Rush-bottomedarm-chairsfacedeachotheracrossthetiledhearth,androwsofDelftplatesstoodonshelvesagainstthewalls.Archerstoopedoverandthrewalogupontheembers.MadameOlenska,droppinghercloak,satdowninoneofthechairs.Archerleanedagainstthechimneyandlookedather."You’relaughingnow;butwhenyouwrotemeyouwereunhappy,"hesaid."Yes."Shepaused."ButIcan’tfeelunhappywhenyou’rehere.""Isha’n’tbeherelong,"herejoined,hislipsstiffeningwiththeefforttosayjustsomuchandnomore."No;Iknow.ButI’mimprovident:IliveinthemomentwhenI’mhappy."Thewordsstolethroughhimlikeatemptation,andtoclosehissensestoithemovedawayfromthehearthandstoodgazingoutattheblacktree-bolesagainstthesnow.Butitwasasifshetoohadshiftedherplace,andhestillsawher,betweenhimselfandthetrees,droopingoverthefirewithherindolentsmile.Archer’sheartwasbeatinginsubordinately.Whatifitwerefromhimthatshehadbeenrunningaway,andifshehadwaitedtotellhimsotilltheywereherealonetogetherinthissecretroom?"Ellen,ifI’mreallyahelptoyou—ifyoureallywantedmetocome—tellmewhat’swrong,tellmewhatitisyou’rerunningawayfrom,"heinsisted.Hespokewithoutshiftinghisposition,withouteventurningtolookather:ifthethingwastohappen,itwastohappeninthisway,withthewholewidthoftheroombetweenthem,andhiseyesstillfixedontheoutersnow.