Риф, или Там, где разбивается счастье

IV

           Hehadanotionthat,saveinthemindofgenius,thecreativeprocessabsorbstoomuchofthewholestuffofbeingtoleavemuchsurplusforpersonalexpression;andthegirlbeforehim,withherchangingfaceandflexiblefancies,seemeddestinedtoworkinlifeitselfratherthaninanyofitscounterfeits.

           ThecoffeeandliqueurswerealreadyonthetablewhenhermindsuddenlysprangbacktotheFarlows.Shejumpedupwithoneofhersubversivemovementsanddeclaredthatshemusttelegraphatonce.Darrowcalledforwritingmaterialsandroomwasmadeatherelbowfortheparchedink-bottleandsaturatedblotteroftheParisianrestaurant;butthemeresightofthesejadedimplementsseemedtoparalyzeMissViner’sfaculties.Shehungoverthetelegraph-formwithanxiously-drawnbrow,thetipofthepen-handlepressedagainstherlip;andatlengthsheraisedhertroubledeyestoDarrow’s.

           “Isimplycan’tthinkhowtosayit.”

           “What—thatyou’restayingovertoseeCerdine?”

           “ButamI—amI,really?”Thejoyofitflamedoverherface.

           Darrowlookedathiswatch.“YoucouldhardlygetananswertoyourtelegramintimetotakeatraintoJoignythisafternoon,evenifyoufoundyourfriendscouldhaveyou.”

           Shemusedforamoment,tappingherlipwiththepen.“ButImustletthemknowI’mhere.Imustfindoutassoonaspossibleiftheycan,haveme.”Shelaidthependowndespairingly.“Inevercouldwriteatelegram!”shesighed.

           “Tryaletter,thenandtellthemyou’llarrivetomorrow.

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