Пробний камінь
VII
“Itwasnotnicetopublishit,certainly;butafterall,I’mnotresponsibleforthat,amI?”Shepaused,and,ashemadenoanswer,wenton,stillsmiling,“Idoreadsometimes,youknow;andI’mveryfondofMargaretAubyn’sbooks.Iwasreading‘PomegranateSeed’whenwefirstmet.Don’tyouremember?Itwasthenyoutoldmeallabouther.”
Glennardhadturnedbackintotheroomandstoodstaringathiswife.“Allabouther?”herepeated,andwiththewordsremembrancecametohim.HehadfoundMissTrentoneafternoonwiththenovelinherhand,andmovedbythelover’sfatuousimpulsetoassociatehimselfinsomewaywithwhateverfillsthemindofthebeloved,hadbrokenthroughhishabitualsilenceaboutthepast.RewardedbytheconsciousnessoffiguringimpressivelyinMissTrent’simaginationhehadgoneonfromoneanecdotetoanother,revivingdormantdetailsofhisoldHillbridgelife,andpasturinghisvanityontheeagernesswithwhichshereceivedhisreminiscencesofabeingalreadyclothedintheimpersonalityofgreatness.
Theincidenthadleftnotraceinhismind;butitsprangupnowlikeanoldenemy,themoredangerousforhavingbeenforgotten.Theinstinctofself-preservation—sometimesthemostperilousthatmancanexercise—madehimawkwardlydeclare—“Oh,Iusedtoseeheratpeople’shouses,thatwasall;”andhersilenceasusualleavingroomforamultiplicationofblunders,headded,withincreasedindifference,“Isimplycan’tseewhatyoucanfindtointerestyouinsuchabook.”
Sheseemedtoconsiderthisintently.
