Chapter XLIV
The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored — bored, in her own phrase, to extinction1. She had not been extinguished, however, and she struggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry an unaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native town, where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose talent for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an obliging disposition2. The Count Gemini was not liked even by those who won from him; and he bore a name which, having a measurable value in Florence, was, like the local coin of the old Italian states, without currency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very dull Florentine, and it is not remarkable3 that he should not have cared to pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dulness needed more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her eyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance4 of her life that she had not an habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had been allowed to visit that city; it scarcely made the matter better that there were other members of the Florentine nobility who never had been there at all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say. Or rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much more to say about it, and had often set forth5 the reasons why she hated Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter’s. They are reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usually summed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the Eternal City and that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. The Countess apparently6 needed to connect the idea of eternity7 with her amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely8 more interesting in Rome, where you met celebrities9 all winter at evening parties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that one had heard of. Since her brother’s marriage her impatience10 had greatly increased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life than herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was intellectual enough to do justice to Rome — not to the ruins and the catacombs, not even perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and the scenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal about her sister-in-law and knew perfectly11 that Isabel was having a beautiful time. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on which she had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a week there during the first winter of her brother’s marriage, but she had not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn’t want her — that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all the same, for after all she didn’t care two straws about Osmond. It was her husband who wouldn’t let her, and the money question was always a trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked her sister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel’s personal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with clever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones could never understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones — the really clever ones — always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that, different as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she had somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they should both know it when once they had really touched it. And then she lived, with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise; she was constantly expecting that Isabel would “look down” on her, and she as constantly saw this operation postponed12. She asked herself when it would begin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not that she cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance13. Her sister-in-law regarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poor Countess as little contempt as admiration14. In reality Isabel would as soon have thought of despising her as of passing a moral judgement on a grasshopper15. She was not indifferent to her husband’s sister, however; she was rather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thought her very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she was like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a remarkably16 pink lip, in which something would rattle17 when you shook it. This rattle was apparently the Countess’s spiritual principle, a little loose nut that tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain18, too anomalous19 for comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there was no question of inviting20 the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage, had not scrupled21 to say frankly22 that Amy was a fool of the worst species — a fool whose folly23 had the irrepressibility of genius. He said at another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that she had given it all away — in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake. The fact of not having been asked was of course another obstacle to the Countess’s going again to Rome; but at the period with which this history has now to deal she was in receipt of an invitation to spend several weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond himself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be very quiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he had put into it I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on any terms. She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of her former visit had been that her brother had found his match. Before the marriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious thoughts — if any of the Countess’s thoughts were serious — of putting her on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she was reassured24. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an easy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it seemed to her that if Isabel should draw herself up she would be the taller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether Isabel had drawn25 herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see Osmond overtopped.
Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her the card of a visitor — a card with the simple superscription “Henrietta C. Stackpole.” The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; she didn’t remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant then remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the Countess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough on seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett’s; the only woman of letters she had ever encountered — that is the only modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct26 poetess. She recognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly27 good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account of her mother — whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother was not at all like Isabel’s friend; the Countess could see at a glance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received an impression of the improvements that were taking place — chiefly in distant countries — in the character (the professional character) of literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown over a pair of shoulders timorously28 bared of their tight black velvet29 (oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of glossy30 ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely31, with the accent of her “Creole” ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great deal and was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see, was always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something brisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost conscientiously33 familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The Countess could not but feel that the correspondent of the Interviewer was much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explained that she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she knew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to see something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett, but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchett was not one of her admirations.
“Do you mean by that that I am?” the Countess graciously asked.
“Well, I like you better than I do her,” said Miss Stackpole. “I seem to remember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don’t know whether it was an accident or whether it’s your usual style. At any rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it afterwards in print.”
“Dear me!” cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; “I had no idea I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time.”
“It was about the position of woman in this city,” Miss Stackpole remarked. “You threw a good deal of light upon it.”
“The position of woman’s very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And you wrote it down and published it?” the Countess went on. “Ah, do let me see it!”
“I’ll write to them to send you the paper if you like,” Henrietta said. “I didn’t mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then I quoted your views.”
The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her clasped hands. “Do you know I’m rather sorry you didn’t mention my name? I should have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what my views were; I have so many! But I’m not ashamed of them. I’m not at all like my brother — I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind of scandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he’d never forgive you.”
“He needn’t be afraid; I shall never refer to him,” said Miss Stackpole with bland34 dryness. “That’s another reason,” she added, “why I wanted to come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend.”
“Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel’s. I was trying to think what I knew about you.”
“I’m quite willing to be known by that,” Henrietta declared. “But that isn’t what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my relations with Isabel.”
“Don’t permit it,” said the Countess.
“That’s what I want to talk about. I’m going to Rome.”
“So am I!” the Countess cried. “We’ll go together.”
“With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I’ll mention you by name as my companion.”
The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa beside her visitor. “Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won’t like it, but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn’t know how to read.”
Henrietta’s large eyes became immense. “Doesn’t know how to read? May I put that into my letter?”
“Into your letter?”
“In the Interviewer. That’s my paper.”
“Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?”
Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess. “She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answered that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason.”
The Countess listened with extreme interest. “The reason’s Osmond,” she pregnantly remarked.
“Isabel ought to make a stand,” said Miss Stackpole. “I’m afraid she has changed a great deal. I told her she would.”
“I’m sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn’t my brother like you?” the Countess ingenuously35 added.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s perfectly welcome not to like me; I don’t want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if some people did. A journalist can’t hope to do much good unless he gets a good deal hated; that’s the way he knows how his work goes on. And it’s just the same for a lady. But I didn’t expect it of Isabel.”
“I don’t know; I want to see. That’s what I’m going to Rome for.”
“She doesn’t write to me in the same way; it’s easy to see there’s a difference. If you know anything,” Miss Stackpole went on, “I should like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take.”
The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug38. “I know very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn’t like me any better than he appears to like you.”
“Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they’ve invited me — I’m to stay in the house!” And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her exultation40, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole’s disappointment.
This lady, however, regarded it very placidly41. “I shouldn’t have gone if she HAD asked me. That is I think I shouldn’t; and I’m glad I hadn’t to make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I shouldn’t have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn’t have been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that’s not all.”
“Rome’s very good just now,” said the Countess; “there are all sorts of brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?”
“Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?” Henrietta enquired.
“I don’t know him, but I’m told he’s extremely grand seigneur. He’s making love to Isabel.”
“Making love to her?”
“So I’m told; I don’t know the details,” said the Countess lightly. “But Isabel’s pretty safe.”
Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said nothing. “When do you go to Rome?” she enquired abruptly42.
“Not for a week, I’m afraid.”
“I shall go to-morrow,” Henrietta said. “I think I had better not wait.”
“Dear me, I’m sorry; I’m having some dresses made. I’m told Isabel receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you at your pension.” Henrietta sat still — she was lost in thought; and suddenly the Countess cried: “Ah, but if you don’t go with me you can’t describe our journey!”
Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was thinking of something else and presently expressed it. “I’m not sure that I understand you about Lord Warburton.”
“Understand me? I mean he’s very nice, that’s all.”
“Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?” Henrietta enquired with unprecedented43 distinctness.
The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: “It’s certain all the nice men do it. Get married and you’ll see!” she added.
“That idea would be enough to prevent me,” said Miss Stackpole. “I should want my own husband; I shouldn’t want any one else’s. Do you mean that Isabel’s guilty — guilty —?” And she paused a little, choosing her expression.
“Do I mean she’s guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean that Osmond’s very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great deal at the house. I’m afraid you’re scandalised.”
“No, I’m just anxious,” Henrietta said.
“Ah, you’re not very complimentary44 to Isabel! You should have more confidence. I’ll tell you,” the Countess added quickly: “if it will be a comfort to you I engage to draw him off.”
Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of her gaze. “You don’t understand me,” she said after a while. “I haven’t the idea you seem to suppose. I’m not afraid for Isabel — in that way. I’m only afraid she’s unhappy — that’s what I want to get at.”
The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient and sarcastic45. “That may very well be; for my part I should like to know whether Osmond is.” Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore her.
“If she’s really changed that must be at the bottom of it,” Henrietta went on.
“You’ll see; she’ll tell you,” said the Countess.
“Ah, she may NOT tell me — that’s what I’m afraid of!”
“Well, if Osmond isn’t amusing himself — in his own old way — I flatter myself I shall discover it,” the Countess rejoined.
“I don’t care for that,” said Henrietta.
“I do immensely! If Isabel’s unhappy I’m very sorry for her, but I can’t help it. I might tell her something that would make her worse, but I can’t tell her anything that would console her. What did she go and marry him for? If she had listened to me she’d have got rid of him. I’ll forgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot for him! If she has simply allowed him to trample46 upon her I don’t know that I shall even pity her. But I don’t think that’s very likely. I count upon finding that if she’s miserable47 she has at least made HIM so.”
Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr. Osmond unhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight of fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whose mind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined, though with a capacity for coarseness even there. “It will be better if they love each other,” she said for edification.
“They can’t. He can’t love any one.”
“I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates49 my fear for Isabel. I shall positively50 start to-morrow.”
“Isabel certainly has devotees,” said the Countess, smiling very vividly51. “I declare I don’t pity her.”
“It may be I can’t assist her,” Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it were well not to have illusions.
“You can have wanted to, at any rate; that’s something. I believe that’s what you came from America for,” the Countess suddenly added.
Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and an eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come. “Ah, that’s very pretty c’est bien gentil! Isn’t it what they call friendship?”
“I don’t know what they call it. I thought I had better come.”
“She’s very happy — she’s very fortunate,” the Countess went on. “She has others besides.” And then she broke out passionately53. “She’s more fortunate than I! I’m as unhappy as she — I’ve a very bad husband; he’s a great deal worse than Osmond. And I’ve no friends. I thought I had, but they’re gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you’ve done for her.”
Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. She gazed at her companion a moment, and then: “Look here, Countess, I’ll do anything for you that you like. I’ll wait over and travel with you.”
“Never mind,” the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: “only describe me in the newspaper!”
Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her understand that she could give no fictitious54 representation of her journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly55 veracious56 reporter. On quitting her she took the way to the Lung’ Arno, the sunny quay57 beside the yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists stand all in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of Florence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore able to turn with great decision of step out of the little square which forms the approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the hotels which overlook that delightful58 structure. Here she drew forth a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, after meditating59 a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query60: “Could I see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?” Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with this little document she approached the porter, who now had taken up his station in the doorway61, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home. The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about twenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged it might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her course along the quay to the severe portico62 of the Uffizi, through which she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings. Making her way in, she ascended63 the high staircase which leads to the upper chambers64. The long corridor, glazed65 on one side and decorated with antique busts66, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an empty vista67 in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble floor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks but scantily68 visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent69 in her quest of artistic70 beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had after all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the little Correggio of the Tribune — the Virgin71 kneeling down before the sacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her hands to him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special devotion to this intimate scene — she thought it the most beautiful picture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she was spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that they must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite work of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it involved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn into the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a little exclamation72 and stood before Caspar Goodwood.
“I’ve just been at your hotel,” she said. “I left a card for you.”
“I’m very much honoured,” Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant it.
“It was not to honour you I did it; I’ve called on you before and I know you don’t like it. It was to talk to you a little about something.”
He looked for a moment at the buckle73 in her hat. “I shall be very glad to hear what you wish to say.”
“You don’t like to talk with me,” said Henrietta. “But I don’t care for that; I don’t talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to come and see me; but since I’ve met you here this will do as well.”
“I was just going away,” Goodwood stated; “but of course I’ll stop.” He was civil, but not enthusiastic.
Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she was so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on any terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all the pictures.
“All I want to. I’ve been here an hour.”
“I wonder if you’ve seen my Correggio,” said Henrietta. “I came up on purpose to have a look at it.” She went into the Tribune and he slowly accompanied her.
“I suppose I’ve seen it, but I didn’t know it was yours. I don’t remember pictures — especially that sort.” She had pointed48 out her favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished to talk with him.
“No,” said Henrietta, “it’s about something less harmonious74!” They had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to themselves; there was only a custode hovering75 about the Medicean Venus. “I want you to do me a favour,” Miss Stackpole went on.
Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment76 at the sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older man than our earlier friend. “I’m sure it’s something I shan’t like,” he said rather loudly.
“No, I don’t think you’ll like it. If you did it would be no favour.”
“Well, let’s hear it,” he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious of his patience.
“You may say there’s no particular reason why you should do me a favour. Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you’d let me I’d gladly do you one.” Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no attempt at effect, had an extreme sincerity77; and her companion, though he presented rather a hard surface, couldn’t help being touched by it. When he was touched he rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed, nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed78 his attention more directly; he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued therefore disinterestedly79, without the sense of an advantage. “I may say now, indeed — it seems a good time — that if I’ve ever annoyed you (and I think sometimes I have) it’s because I knew I was willing to suffer annoyance80 for you. I’ve troubled you — doubtless. But Is’d TAKE trouble for you.”
Goodwood hesitated. “You’re taking trouble now.”
“Yes, I am — some. I want you to consider whether it’s better on the whole that you should go to Rome.”
“I thought you were going to say that!” he answered rather artlessly.
“You HAVE considered it then?”
“Of course I have, very carefully. I’ve looked all round it. Otherwise I shouldn’t have come so far as this. That’s what I stayed in Paris two months for. I was thinking it over.”
“I’m afraid you decided81 as you liked. You decided it was best because you were so much attracted.”
“Best for whom, do you mean?” Goodwood demanded.
“Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next.”
“Oh, it won’t do HER any good! I don’t flatter myself that.”
“Won’t it do her some harm? — that’s the question.”
“I don’t see what it will matter to her. I’m nothing to Mrs. Osmond. But if you want to know, I do want to see her myself.”
“Yes, and that’s why you go.”
“Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?”
“How will it help you? — that’s what I want to know,” said Miss Stackpole.
“That’s just what I can’t tell you. It’s just what I was thinking about in Paris.”
“It will make you more discontented.”
“Why do you say ‘more’ so?” Goodwood asked rather sternly. “How do you know I’m discontented?”
“Well,” said Henrietta, hesitating a little, “you seem never to have cared for another.”
“How do you know what I care for?” he cried with a big blush. “Just now I care to go to Rome.”
Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous82 expression. “Well,” she observed at last, “I only wanted to tell you what I think; I had it on my mind. Of course you think it’s none of my business. But nothing is any one’s business, on that principle.”
“It’s very kind of you; I’m greatly obliged to you for your interest,” said Caspar Goodwood. “I shall go to Rome and I shan’t hurt Mrs. Osmond.”
“You won’t hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her? — that’s the real issue.”
“Is she in need of help?” he asked slowly, with a penetrating83 look.
“Most women always are,” said Henrietta, with conscientious32 evasiveness and generalising less hopefully than usual. “If you go to Rome,” she added, “I hope you’ll be a true friend — snot a selfish one!” And she turned off and began to look at the pictures.
Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. “You’ve heard something about her here,” he then resumed. “I should like to know what you’ve heard.”
Henrietta had never prevaricated84 in her life, and, though on this occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. “Yes, I’ve heard,” she answered; “but as I don’t want you to go to Rome I won’t tell you.”
“Just as you please. I shall see for myself,” he said. Then inconsistently, for him, “You’ve heard she’s unhappy!” he added.
“Oh, you won’t see that!” Henrietta exclaimed.
“I hope not. When do you start?”
“To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?”
Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss Stackpole’s company. His indifference85 to this advantage was not of the same character as Gilbert Osmond’s, but it had at this moment an equal distinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole’s virtues86 than a reference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant, and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged. Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters he supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But it was this very eminence87 of their position that made him wish Miss Stackpole didn’t take so much for granted. She took for granted that he was always ready for some allusion88 to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when they met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had repeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no wish whatever to allude89 to Mrs. Osmond; he was NOT always thinking of her; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least colloquial90 of men, and this enquiring91 authoress was constantly flashing her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn’t care so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal92 of him, that she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, he just now made other reflections — which show how widely different, in effect, his ill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond’s. He desired to go immediately to Rome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the European railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee to knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently found one’s self objecting with all the added vehemence93 of one’s wish to have the window open; and if they were worse at night even than by day, at least at night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But he couldn’t take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the morning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotected woman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should wait longer than he had patience for. It wouldn’t do to start the next day. She worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in a European railway-carriage with her offered a complication of irritations94. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty to put himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that; it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some moments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a tone of extreme distinctness, “Of course if you’re going to-morrow I’ll go too, as I may be of assistance to you.”
“Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!” Henrietta returned imperturbably95.
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extinction
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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remarkable
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grievance
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forth
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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infinitely
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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aggravates
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| 使恶化( aggravate的第三人称单数 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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66
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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73
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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75
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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disinterestedly
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80
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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prevaricated
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| v.支吾( prevaricate的过去式和过去分词 )；搪塞；说谎 | |
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85
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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86
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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88
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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89
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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90
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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91
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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92
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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93
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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94
irritations
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| n.激怒( irritation的名词复数 )；恼怒；生气；令人恼火的事 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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