Вино из одуванчиков

           Sheheldherselfrigidanddidnottouchherfaceorhereyes;herhandsremained,oneatoptheother,holdingon."You’dbettergonow.Yes,youmaycometomorrow,butgonow,please,anddon’tsayanymore."

           Hewalkedoffthroughthegarden,leavingherbyhertableintheshade.Hecouldnotbringhimselftolookback.

           Fourdays,eightdays,twelvedayspassed,andhewasinvitedtoteas,tosuppers,tolunches.Theysattalkingthroughthelonggreenafternoons-theytalkedofart,ofliterature,oflife,ofsocietyandpolitics.Theyateicecreamsandsquabsanddrankgoodwines.

           "Idon’tcarewhatanyonesays,"shesaid."Andpeoplearesayingthings,aren’tthey?"

           Heshifteduneasily.

           "Iknewit.Awoman’sneversafe,evenwhenninety-five,fromgossip."

           "Icouldstopvisiting."

           "Oh,no,"shecried,andrecovered.Inaquietervoiceshesaid,"Youknowyoucan’tdothat.Youknowyoudon’tcarewhattheythink,doyou?Solongasweknowit’sallright?"

           "Idon’tcare,"hesaid.

           "Now"-shesettledback—"let’splayourgame.Whereshallitbethistime?Paris?IthinkParis."

           "Paris,"hesaid,noddingquietly.

           "Well,"shebegan,"it’stheyear1885andwe’reboardingtheshipinNewYorkharbor.There’sourluggage,hereareourtickets,theregoestheskyline.Nowwe’reatsea.Nowwe’recomingintoMarseilles..."