Дні мрій
Its Walls Were As Of Jasper
Theywerestilldeepinclothes,bothtalkingtogether,andIslippedthrough.
ThiswasaltogetheramoresensiblesortofroomthatIhadgotinto;forthewallswerehonestlyupholsteredwithbooks,thoughtheseforthemostpartglimmeredprovokinglythroughtheglassdoorsoftheirtallcases.Ireadtheirtitleslongingly,breathingoneveryaccessiblepaneofglass,forIdarednotattempttoopenthedoors,withtheenemyencampedsonear.Inthewindow,though,onahighsortofdesk,therelay,allbyitself,amostpromising-lookingbook,gorgeouslybound.Iraisedtheleavesbyonecorner,andlikescentfromapot-pourrijartherefloatedoutabriefvisionofbluesandreds,tellingofpictures,andpicturesallhighlycoloured!Herewastherightsortofthingatlast,andmyafternoonwouldnotbeentirelywasted.IinclinedaneartothedoorbywhichIhadentered.Likethebrimmingtideofafull-fedriverthegrand,eternal,inexhaustibleclothes-problembubbledandeddiedandsurgedalong.Itseemedsafeenough.Islidthebookoffitsdeskwithsomedifficulty,foritwasveryfineandlarge,andstaggeredwithittothehearthrug—theonlyfitandproperplaceforbooksofquality,suchasthis.
Theywereexcellenthearthrugsinthathouse;softandwide,withthethickestofpile,andone’skneessankintothemmostcomfortably.WhenIgotthebookopentherewasadifficultyatfirstinmakingthegreatstiffpagesliedown.Mostfortunatelythecoal-scuttlewasactuallyatmyelbow,anditwaseasytofindaflatbitofcoaltolayontherefractorypage.
