Читать книгу The Meadows of the Moon - James Hilton - Страница 22

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She reckoned herself to be slightly in love with him. It was rather delightful, but it was also (in another sense) tiresome. She really had no desire to fall in love with anybody—least of all with Micky. She had her own work to do, her research book to write, and any emotional disturbance might easily upset her for the job. She was glad she was not the innocent village maiden walking into experience with blind and trusting eyes, but an entirely sophisticated modern girl with an analytical mind that desired to see everything frankly, even her own self. And looking thus frankly at herself, she decided: I am—I am—yes—just a little bit—in love with Micky....

Of course the whole thing was slight in texture. Vaguely in her mind love appeared as a huge something that would one day (no doubt at a more convenient stage in her research work) seize and envelope her, yet not with complete possession. (She would never allow that.) And it was rather comforting to reflect how absurdly opposite were Michael and any idea of “hugeness.”

The charming thing about him was that she could talk to him so frankly. “You needn’t think,” she told him once in the meadows, “that because I let you kiss me I’m passionately in love with you. I’m fond of you, because we’ve always been such friends, and I like you to kiss me because—I suppose—you’re male and I’m female, but beyond that——”

“Yes, beyond that—” he echoed, picking up her words instantly—“beyond that—there’s something else. Haven’t you felt it?”

He added, when she was silent: “I will make you feel it.”