"Pat Murphy - Menagerie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Pat)

George shook his head, attempting to banish thoughts of the night before. The
morning was beautiful; the air was fresh and clear-- until he turned a comer and
caught the scent of rotting meat. He found himself looking down a long straight
path that ended at a tall wrought iron fence enclosing a section of pasture
land. On the far side of the fence, a hyena was prowling.

The size of a large mastiff, the hyena was a strange, ungainly animal, with
forelegs longer than its hindlegs and a back that sloped downward as a
consequence. As George watched, the beast yawned, exposing an impressive
assortment of yellowing teeth. Its eyes were bright and alert, but something --
perhaps the way that the animal hunched its shoulders and looked up rather than
looking honestly forward -- gave it a servile and deceptive air.

As it paced, the hyena was giving its entire attention to Selina, who sat
outside the fence on a bench in the sunshine. She had a sketchpad in her lap and
her eyes were on her work.

George hesitated, restrained by his natural shyness, then thought to approach
quietly, so as not to disturb her. She did not look up as he approached, but
when he was still several feet away she spoke. "Good morning, Mr. Paxton. You
are abroad very early. Pray move softly, so you do not alarm my subject."

Stopping where he was, George noticed another hyena lounging in a bit of shade
near the fence. Ignoring Selina and its companion in the enclosure, the animal
was staring in his direction, its ears cocked forward.

"My apologies for disturbing you, Miss Selina," he said. "I did not think anyone
else was awake yet."

"I often come walking early," Selina said. "Dawn is the best time to observe the
animals."

She fell silent then, attending to her work. From where he stood, George could
not see the sketch on her pad, so he contented himself with studying her hands,
so delicate and pale, handling the pencil with skill and grace. Wishing to see
the sketch, he took a step forward, but Selina, as if anticipating his interest,
was already closing her sketchbook and looking up at him.

"May I look..." he began, but she waved him off With an air of diffidence.

"I am no artist, Mr. Paxton. My renderings are for my own pleasure only."

Though he wished to press the matter, George could think of no way to do so
gracefully. As happened so often, he found himself at a loss, not knowing the
proper formula of polite flattery that might persuade her.

Selina gathered her skirts and stood, holding her sketchpad and pencil. "I doubt
the others are awake yet," she said easily. "Would you care to stroll through
the garden? I am certain we will be back in time for breakfast."