Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

II

           Oh,notonaccountofyouorJimmyBrance!SimplybecauseshehadalmostallthethingsI’vealwayswanted:clothesandfunandmotors,andadmirationandyachtingandParis—why,Parisalonewouldbeenough!—Andhowdoyousupposeagirlcanseethatsortofthingaboutherdayafterday,andneverwonderwhysomewomen,whodon’tseemtohaveanymorerighttoit,haveitalltumbledintotheirlaps,whileothersarewritingdinnerinvitations,andstraighteningoutaccounts,andcopyingvisitinglists,andfinishinggolf-stockings,andmatchingribbons,andseeingthatthedogsgettheirsulphur?Onelooksinone’sglass,afterall!”

           Shelaunchedtheclosingwordsathimonacrythatliftedthemabovethepetulanceofvanity;buthissenseofherwordswaslostinthesurpriseofherface.Undertheflyingcloudsofherexcitementitwasnolongerashallowflower-cupbutadarkeninggleamingmirrorthatmightgivebackstrangedepthsoffeeling.Thegirlhadstuffinher—hesawit;andsheseemedtocatchtheperceptioninhiseyes.

           “That’sthekindofeducationIgotatMrs.Murrett’s—andIneverhadanyother,”shesaidwithashrug.

           “GoodLord—wereyoutheresolong?”

           “Fiveyears.Istuckitoutlongerthananyoftheothers.”Shespokeasthoughitweresomethingtobeproudof.

           “Well,thankGodyou’reoutofitnow!”

           Againajustperceptibleshadowcrossedherface.“Yes—I’moutofitnowfastenough.

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