Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
ItoldherIcertainlywould,ifIcould.IsaidthatIwasn’tterriblyprolific.
"Itdoesn’thavetobeterriblyprolific!Justsothatitisn’tchildishandsilly."Shereflected."Ipreferstoriesaboutsqualor."
"Aboutwhat?"Isaid,leaningforward."Squalor.I’mextremelyinterestedinsqualor."
Iwasabouttopressherformoredetails,butIfeltCharlespinchingme,hard,onmyarm.Iturnedtohim,wincingslightly.Hewasstandingrightnexttome."Whatdidonewallsaytotheotherwall?"heasked,notunfamiliarly.
"Youaskedhimthat,"Esmesaid."Now,stopit."
Ignoringhissister,andsteppingupononeofmyfeet,Charlesrepeatedthekeyquestion.Inoticedthathisnecktieknotwasn’tadjustedproperly.Isliditupintoplace,then,lookinghimstraightintheeye,suggested,"Meetchaatthecorner?"
TheinstantI’dsaidit,IwishedIhadn’t.Charles’mouthfellopen.IfeltasifI’dstruckitopen.Hesteppeddownoffmyfootand,withwhite-hotdignity,walkedovertohisowntable,withoutlookingback.
"He’sfurious,"Esmesaid."Hehasaviolenttemper.Mymotherhadapropensitytospoilhim.Myfatherwastheonlyonewhodidn’tspoilhim."
IkeptlookingoveratCharles,whohadsatdownandstartedtodrinkhistea,usingbothhandsonthecup.Ihopedhe’dturnaround,buthedidn’t.
Esmestoodup.`Ilfautquejeparteaussi,"shesaid,withasigh."DoyouknowFrench?"
Igotupfrommyownchair,withmixedfeelingsofregretandconfusion.
