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- Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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- Стр. 186/246
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Julia
to
her
great
amazement
soon
discovered
that
to
them
her
celebrity
was
an
embarrassment
rather
than
an
asset
.
Far
from
wanting
to
show
her
off
,
they
did
not
offer
to
take
her
with
them
to
pay
calls
.
Aunt
Carrie
had
brought
the
habit
of
afternoon
tea
with
her
from
Jersey
,
and
had
never
abandoned
it
.
One
day
,
soon
after
Julia
’
s
arrival
,
when
they
had
invited
some
ladies
to
tea
,
Mrs
.
Lambert
at
luncheon
thus
addressed
her
daughter
.
"
My
dear
,
we
have
some
very
good
friends
at
St
.
Malo
,
but
of
course
they
still
look
upon
us
as
foreigners
,
even
after
all
these
years
,
and
we
don
’
t
like
to
do
anything
that
seems
at
all
eccentric
.
Naturally
we
don
’
t
want
you
to
tell
a
lie
,
but
unless
you
are
forced
to
mention
it
,
your
Aunt
Carrie
thinks
it
would
be
better
if
you
did
not
tell
anyone
that
you
are
an
actress
.
"
Julia
was
taken
aback
,
but
,
her
sense
of
humour
prevailing
,
she
felt
inclined
to
laugh
.
"
If
one
of
the
friends
we
are
expecting
this
afternoon
happens
to
ask
you
what
your
husband
is
,
it
wouldn
’
t
be
untrue
,
would
it
?
to
say
that
he
was
in
business
.
"
"
Not
at
all
,
"
said
Julia
,
permitting
herself
to
smile
.
"
Of
course
,
we
know
that
English
actresses
are
not
like
French
ones
,
"
Aunt
Carrie
added
kindly
.
"
It
’
s
almost
an
understood
thing
for
a
French
actress
to
have
a
lover
.
"
"
Dear
,
dear
,
"
said
Julia
.
Her
life
in
London
,
with
its
excitements
,
its
triumphs
and
its
pains
,
began
to
seem
very
far
away
.
She
found
herself
able
soon
to
consider
Tom
and
her
feeling
for
him
with
a
tranquil
mind
.
She
realized
that
her
vanity
had
been
more
wounded
than
her
heart
.
The
days
passed
monotonously
.
Soon
the
only
thing
that
recalled
London
to
her
was
the
arrival
on
Monday
of
the
Sunday
papers
.
She
got
a
batch
of
them
and
spent
the
whole
day
reading
them
.
Then
she
was
a
trifle
restless
.
She
walked
on
the
ramparts
and
looked
at
the
islands
that
dotted
the
bay
.
The
grey
sky
made
her
sick
for
the
grey
sky
of
England
.
But
by
Tuesday
morning
she
had
sunk
back
once
more
into
the
calmness
of
the
provincial
life
.
She
read
a
good
deal
,
novels
,
English
and
French
,
that
she
bought
at
the
local
bookshop
,
and
her
favourite
Verlaine
.
There
was
a
tender
melancholy
in
his
verses
that
seemed
to
fit
the
grey
Breton
town
,
the
sad
old
stone
houses
and
the
quietness
of
those
steep
and
tortuous
streets
.
The
peaceful
habits
of
the
two
old
ladies
,
the
routine
of
their
uneventful
existence
and
their
quiet
gossip
,
excited
her
compassion
.
Nothing
had
happened
to
them
for
years
,
nothing
now
would
ever
happen
to
them
till
they
died
,
and
then
how
little
would
their
lives
have
signified
.
The
strange
thing
was
that
they
were
content
.
They
knew
neither
malice
nor
envy
.
They
had
achieved
the
aloofness
from
the
common
ties
of
men
that
Julia
felt
in
herself
when
she
stood
at
the
footlights
bowing
to
the
applause
of
an
enthusiastic
audience
.
Sometimes
she
had
thought
that
aloofness
her
most
precious
possession
.
In
her
it
was
born
of
pride
;
in
them
of
humility
.
In
both
cases
it
brought
one
precious
thing
,
liberty
of
spirit
;
but
with
them
it
was
more
secure
.
Michael
wrote
to
her
once
a
week
,
brisk
,
businesslike
letters
in
which
he
told
her
what
her
takings
*
were
at
the
Siddons
and
the
preparations
he
was
making
for
the
next
production
;
but
Charles
Tamerley
wrote
to
her
every
day
.
He
told
her
the
gossip
of
the
town
,
he
talked
in
his
charming
,
cultivated
way
of
the
pictures
he
saw
and
the
books
he
read
.
He
was
tenderly
allusive
and
playfully
erudite
.
He
philosophized
without
pedantry
.
He
told
her
that
he
adored
her
.
They
were
the
most
beautiful
love
-
letters
Julia
had
ever
received
and
for
the
sake
of
posterity
she
made
up
her
mind
to
keep
them
.
One
day
perhaps
someone
would
publish
them
and
people
would
go
to
the
National
Portrait
Gallery
and
look
at
her
portrait
,
the
one
McEvoy
had
painted
,
and
sigh
when
they
thought
of
the
sad
,
romantic
love
-
story
of
which
she
had
been
the
heroine
.
