Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Iorderedanotherpotofteaandsatwatchingthetwoofthemtillthey,andtheharassedMissMegley,gotuptoleave.Charlesledthewayout,limpingtragically,likeamanwithonelegseveral,inchesshorterthantheother.Hedidn’tlookoveratme.MissMegleywentnext,thenEsme,whowavedtome.Iwavedback,halfgettingupfrommychair.Itwasastrangelyemotionalmomentforme.
Lessthanaminutelater,Esmecamebackintothetearoom,draggingCharlesbehindherbythesleeveofhisreefer."Charleswouldliketokissyougoodbye,"shesaid.
Iimmediatelyputdownmycup,andsaidthatwasverynice,butwasshesure?
"Yes,"shesaid,atriflegrimly.SheletgoCharles’sleeveandgavehimarathervigorouspushinmydirection.Hecameforward,hisfacelivid,andgavemealoud,wetsmackerjustbelowtherightear.Followingthisordeal,hestartedtomakeabeelineforthedoorandalesssentimentalwayoflife,but1caughtthehalfbeltatthebackofhisreefer,heldontoit,andaskedhim,"Whatdidonewallsaytotheotherwall?"
Hisfacelitup."Meetyouatthecorner!"heshrieked,andracedoutoftheroom,possiblyinhysterics.
Esmewasstandingwithcrossedanklesagain."You’requitesureyouwon’tforgettowritethatstoryforme?"sheasked."Itdoesn’thavetobeexclusivelyforme.Itcan—"
IsaidtherewasabsolutelynochancethatI’dforget.ItoldherthatI’dneverwrittenastoryforanybody,butthatitseemedlikeexactlytherighttimetogetdowntoit.
Shenodded.
