Театр

           Thedayspassedmonotonously.SoontheonlythingthatrecalledLondontoherwasthearrivalonMondayoftheSundaypapers.Shegotabatchofthemandspentthewholedayreadingthem.Thenshewasatriflerestless.Shewalkedontherampartsandlookedattheislandsthatdottedthebay.ThegreyskymadehersickforthegreyskyofEngland.ButbyTuesdaymorningshehadsunkbackoncemoreintothecalmnessoftheprovinciallife.Shereadagooddeal,novels,EnglishandFrench,thatsheboughtatthelocalbookshop,andherfavouriteVerlaine.TherewasatendermelancholyinhisversesthatseemedtofitthegreyBretontown,thesadoldstonehousesandthequietnessofthosesteepandtortuousstreets.Thepeacefulhabitsofthetwooldladies,theroutineoftheiruneventfulexistenceandtheirquietgossip,excitedhercompassion.Nothinghadhappenedtothemforyears,nothingnowwouldeverhappentothemtilltheydied,andthenhowlittlewouldtheirliveshavesignified.Thestrangethingwasthattheywerecontent.Theyknewneithermalicenorenvy.TheyhadachievedthealoofnessfromthecommontiesofmenthatJuliafeltinherselfwhenshestoodatthefootlightsbowingtotheapplauseofanenthusiasticaudience.Sometimesshehadthoughtthataloofnesshermostpreciouspossession.Inheritwasbornofpride;inthemofhumility.Inbothcasesitbroughtonepreciousthing,libertyofspirit;butwiththemitwasmoresecure.