Титан

F. A. Cowperwood, Guardian

           Hereyes,too,wereshrewderandlessevasive,thoughsubtleenough.

           "SoImeetyouagain,"heobserved,withasomewhataloofair,asshecameoutontheporchandsanklistlesslyintoawickerchair."ThelasttimeImetyouyouwerehardatworkinNewYork."

           "Breakingtherules.No,Iforget;thatwasmyeasiestwork.Oh,Rolfe,"shecalledoverhershoulder,indifferently,"Iseeyourpocket-knifeoutonthegrass."

           Cowperwood,properlysuppressed,waitedabriefspace."Whowonthatexcitinggame?"

           "Idid,ofcourse.Ialwayswinattether-ball."

           "Oh,doyou?"commentedCowperwood.

           "Imeanwithbrother,ofcourse.Heplayssopoorly."SheturnedtothewestthehousefacedsouthandstudiedtheroadwhichcameupfromStroudsburg."Idobelievethat’sHarryKemp,"sheadded,quitetoherself."Ifso,he’llhavemymail,ifthereisany."

           Shegotupagainanddisappearedintothehouse,comingoutafewmomentslatertosaunterdowntothegate,whichwasoverahundredfeetaway.ToCowperwoodsheseemedtofloat,sohaleandgracefulwasshe.Asmartyouthinbluesergecoat,whitetrousers,andwhiteshoesdrovebyinahigh-seatedtrap.

           "Twolettersforyou,"hecalled,inahigh,almostfalsettovoice."Ithoughtyouwouldhaveeightornine.Blessedhot,isn’tit?"Hehadasmartthoughsomewhateffeminatemanner,andCowperwoodatoncewrotehimdownasanass.

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