The Summer of Katya Read Online Free PDF Page B

vague interest in the here and now. I sometimes think Father believes us to be living in an era that is posthistoric and rather insignificant.”
    “Is that where it comes from? Your interest in books and learning? Not many women concern themselves with such things as anatomy and Dr. Freud.”
    “I’ve never cared much what other women do. Another cup?”
    “Please.”
    As she leaned forward to pour, she said quietly, as though it had been on her mind all along, “You don’t like my brother, do you?”
    “What makes you think that?”
    “Oh, there was a certain tension in the air when I returned with tea.”
    “Yes. I suppose there was.”
    “And? What do you think of him?”
    “Shall I be frank?”
    “That means you intend to say something unpleasant, doesn’t it?”
    “I could not be both pleasant and honest.”
    “My word!” she said with mock astonishment. “Now, that is frank.”
    “I don’t mean to be offensive—”
    “But?”
    “But… well, don’t you find him a little supercilious and arrogant?”
    “He’s just playful.”
    “Perhaps. May I ask you, is your name really Treville?”
    She looked up in surprise. “What an odd question!”
    I began to explain that it wasn’t odd at all, considering her brother’s reaction to being called Monsieur Treville, but she interrupted me with, “Oh, I see. He lead you to believe Treville wasn’t our name.”
    “He did in fact.”
    She smiled and shook her head. “Isn’t that just like him.”
    “I don’t know. But I assume it is.”
    “Just a bit of his playfulness. He enjoys having people on… keeping them off balance. You must forgive him.”
    “Must I?”
    “I was rather hoping you two might hit it off. He knows no one here.”
    “I’m afraid the possibility of our hitting it off is rather distant.”
    “Too bad. The poor fellow has a quick, intelligent mind and nothing to exercise it on in this forgotten corner of the world. He’s bored to distraction.”
    “Why doesn’t he go elsewhere?”
    “He is not free to.”
    The tone in which she said this prohibited me from pursuing the reasons he was not free, so I asked instead, “Why doesn’t he occupy himself with reading and study, as you do?”
    “Other people’s ideas bore him. Shall we walk in the garden?”
    So blatant was this change of subject that I had to smile. “Won’t we need a native boy to cut a trail for us?”
    She laughed as she walked ahead of me. “No, there’s a well-worn path through the jungle. I spend much of the day at the bottom of the garden. There’s a summerhouse—well, what’s left of a summerhouse—where I enjoy hiding away with a book. Now, it is true that if you stray off the path we may have to muster a search party to find you, but you’re safe enough if you stay close to me.”
    “I can imagine nothing less safe than staying close to you, Mlle Treville, and nothing more desirable.”
    She frowned. “That is unworthy of you, Dr. Montjean. Men don’t seem to realize that automatic, boyish gallantry can be a terrible bore. A woman must either pretend that she did not hear it, or she must respond to it. And often, she’d rather do neither.”
    I felt my ears redden. “I am sorry. You are quite right, of course. May I make a confession to you?”
    “I don’t know. Will the confession be a burden? Will I be obligated to keep your secrets? Or to pretend at compassion?”
    “No, it’s an altogether trivial confession.”
    “Oh, then by all means confess to me. I’m quite comfortable with the altogether trivial.”
    “It’s actually more an explanation than a confession. That ‘automatic, boyish gallantry’ you quite rightly objected to is a result of a terrible habit I’ve fallen into. When I’m alone and daydreaming, I practice at confecting clever lines of dialogue. But when I inflict them on people in real life, somehow the cleverness dissolves in my mouth, and only a stilted artificiality is left. I didn’t mean to be