Літо
XI
Butitmusthavebeenexceptionallywellbuilt,forthelittleroomshadkeptsomethingoftheirhumanaspect:thewoodenmantelswiththeirneatclassicornamentswereinplace,andthecornersofoneceilingretainedalightfilmofplastertracery.
Harneyhadfoundanoldbenchatthebackdooranddraggeditintothehouse.Charitysatonit,leaningherheadagainstthewallinastateofdrowsylassitude.Hehadguessedthatshewashungryandthirsty,andhadbroughthersometabletsofchocolatefromhisbicycle-bag,andfilledhisdrinking-cupfromaspringintheorchard;andnowhesatatherfeet,smokingacigarette,andlookingupatherwithoutspeaking.Outside,theafternoonshadowswerelengtheningacrossthegrass,andthroughtheemptywindow-framethatfacedhershesawtheMountainthrustingitsdarkmassagainstasultrysunset.Itwastimetogo.
Shestoodup,andhesprangtohisfeetalso,andpassedhisarmthroughherswithanairofauthority.“Now,Charity,you’recomingbackwithme.”
Shelookedathimandshookherhead.“Iain’tevergoingback.Youdon’tknow.”
“Whatdon’tIknow?”Shewassilent,andhecontinued:“Whathappenedonthewharfwashorrible—it’snaturalyoushouldfeelasyoudo.Butitdoesn’tmakeanyrealdifference:youcan’tbehurtbysuchthings.Youmusttrytoforget.Andyoumusttrytounderstandthatmen...mensometimes...”
“Iknowaboutmen.That’swhy.”
Hecolouredalittleattheretort,asthoughithadtouchedhiminawayshedidnotsuspect.
“Well,then...youmustknowonehastomakeallowances...
