I strolled down the hill without meeting a creature, though I could see through the palings of the Common that that recreative expanse was peopled with dim forms. I remembered Mrs. Nettlepoint’s house — she lived in those days (they are not so distant, but there have been changes) on the water-side, a little way beyond the spot at which the Public Garden terminates; and I reflected that like myself she would be spending the night in Boston if it were true that, as had been mentioned to me a few days before at Mount Desert, she was to embark7 on the morrow for Liverpool. I presently saw this appearance confirmed by a light above her door and in two or three of her windows, and I determined8 to ask for her, having nothing to do till bedtime. I had come out simply to pass an hour, leaving my hotel to the blaze of its gas and the perspiration9 of its porters; but it occurred to me that my old friend might very well not know of the substitution of the Patagonia for the Scandinavia, so that it would be an act of consideration to prepare her mind. Besides, I could offer to help her, to look after her in the morning: lone2 women are grateful for support in taking ship for far countries.
As I stood on her doorstep I remembered that as she had a son she might not after all be so lone; yet at the same time it was present to me that Jasper Nettlepoint was not quite a young man to lean upon, having (as I at least supposed) a life of his own and tastes and habits which had long since drawn10 him away from the maternal11 side. If he did happen just now to be at home my solicitude12 would of course seem officious; for in his many wanderings — I believed he had roamed all over the globe — he would certainly have learned how to manage. None the less I was very glad to show Mrs. Nettlepoint I thought of her. With my long absence I had lost sight of her; but I had liked her of old; she had been a close friend of my sisters; and I had in regard to her that sense which is pleasant to those who, in general, have grown strange or detached — the feeling that she at least knew all about me. I could trust her at any time to tell people what a respectable person I was. Perhaps I was conscious of how little I deserved this indulgence when it came over me that for years I had not communicated with her. The measure of this neglect was given by my vagueness of mind about her son. However, I really belonged nowadays to a different generation: I was more the old lady’s contemporary than Jasper’s.
Mrs. Nettlepoint was at home: I found her in her back drawing-room, where the wide windows opened upon the water. The room was dusky — it was too hot for lamps — and she sat slowly moving her fan and looking out on the little arm of the sea which is so pretty at night, reflecting the lights of Cambridgeport and Charlestown. I supposed she was musing13 upon the loved ones she was to leave behind, her married daughters, her grandchildren; but she struck a note more specifically Bostonian as she said to me, pointing with her fan to the Back Bay — ‘I shall see nothing more charming than that over there, you know!’ She made me very welcome, but her son had told her about the Patagonia, for which she was sorry, as this would mean a longer voyage. She was a poor creature on shipboard and mainly confined to her cabin, even in weather extravagantly14 termed fine — as if any weather could be fine at sea.
‘Ah, then your son’s going with you?’ I asked.
‘Here he comes, he will tell you for himself much better than I am able to do.’
Jasper Nettlepoint came into the room at that moment, dressed in white flannel15 and carrying a large fan.
‘Well, my dear, have you decided16?’ his mother continued, with some irony17 in her tone. ‘He hasn’t yet made up his mind, and we sail at ten o’clock!’
‘What does it matter, when my things are put up?’ said the young man. ‘There is no crowd at this moment; there will be cabins to spare. I’m waiting for a telegram — that will settle it. I just walked up to the club to see if it was come — they’ll send it there because they think the house is closed. Not yet, but I shall go back in twenty minutes.’
‘Mercy, how you rush about in this temperature!’ his mother exclaimed, while I reflected that it was perhaps his billiard-balls I had heard ten minutes before. I was sure he was fond of billiards18.
‘Rush? not in the least. I take it uncommonly19 easy.’
‘Ah, I’m bound to say you do,’ Mrs. Nettlepoint exclaimed, inconsequently. I divined that there was a certain tension between the pair and a want of consideration on the young man’s part, arising perhaps from selfishness. His mother was nervous, in suspense20, wanting to be at rest as to whether she should have his company on the voyage or be obliged to make it alone. But as he stood there smiling and slowly moving his fan he struck me somehow as a person on whom this fact would not sit very heavily. He was of the type of those whom other people worry about, not of those who worry about other people. Tall and strong, he had a handsome face, with a round head and close-curling hair; the whites of his eyes and the enamel21 of his teeth, under his brown moustache, gleamed vaguely22 in the lights of the Back Bay. I made out that he was sunburnt, as if he lived much in the open air, and that he looked intelligent but also slightly brutal23, though not in a morose24 way. His brutality25, if he had any, was bright and finished. I had to tell him who I was, but even then I saw that he failed to place me and that my explanations gave me in his mind no great identity or at any rate no great importance. I foresaw that he would in intercourse26 make me feel sometimes very young and sometimes very old. He mentioned, as if to show his mother that he might safely be left to his own devices, that he had once started from London to Bombay at three-quarters of an hour’s notice.
‘Yes, and it must have been pleasant for the people you were with!’
‘Oh, the people I was with ——!’ he rejoined; and his tone appeared to signify that such people would always have to come off as they could. He asked if there were no cold drinks in the house, no lemonade, no iced syrups28; in such weather something of that sort ought always to be kept going. When his mother remarked that surely at the club they were going he went on, ‘Oh, yes, I had various things there; but you know I have walked down the hill since. One should have something at either end. May I ring and see?’ He rang while Mrs. Nettlepoint observed that with the people they had in the house — an establishment reduced naturally at such a moment to its simplest expression (they were burning-up candle-ends and there were no luxuries) she would not answer for the service. The matter ended in the old lady’s going out of the room in quest of syrup27 with the female domestic who had appeared in response to the bell and in whom Jasper’s appeal aroused no visible intelligence.
She remained away some time and I talked with her son, who was sociable29 but desultory30 and kept moving about the room, always with his fan, as if he were impatient. Sometimes he seated himself for an instant on the window-sill, and then I saw that he was in fact very good-looking; a fine brown, clean young athlete. He never told me on what special contingency31 his decision depended; he only alluded32 familiarly to an expected telegram, and I perceived that he was probably not addicted33 to copious34 explanations. His mother’s absence was an indication that when it was a question of gratifying him she had grown used to spare no pains, and I fancied her rummaging35 in some close storeroom, among old preserve-pots, while the dull maid-servant held the candle awry36. I know not whether this same vision was in his own eyes; at all events it did not prevent him from saying suddenly, as he looked at his watch, that I must excuse him, as he had to go back to the club. He would return in half an hour — or in less. He walked away and I sat there alone, conscious, in the dark, dismantled37, simplified room, in the deep silence that rests on American towns during the hot season (there was now and then a far cry or a plash in the water, and at intervals38 the tinkle40 of the bells of the horse-cars on the long bridge, slow in the suffocating41 night), of the strange influence, half sweet, half sad, that abides42 in houses uninhabited or about to become so — in places muffled43 and bereaved44, where the unheeded sofas and patient belittered tables seem to know (like the disconcerted dogs) that it is the eve of a journey.
After a while I heard the sound of voices, of steps, the rustle46 of dresses, and I looked round, supposing these things to be the sign of the return of Mrs. Nettlepoint and her handmaiden, bearing the refreshment47 prepared for her son. What I saw however was two other female forms, visitors just admitted apparently48, who were ushered49 into the room. They were not announced — the servant turned her back on them and rambled50 off to our hostess. They came forward in a wavering, tentative, unintroduced way — partly, I could see, because the place was dark and partly because their visit was in its nature experimental, a stretch of confidence. One of the ladies was stout51 and the other was slim, and I perceived in a moment that one was talkative and the other silent. I made out further that one was elderly and the other young and that the fact that they were so unlike did not prevent their being mother and daughter. Mrs. Nettlepoint reappeared in a very few minutes, but the interval39 had sufficed to establish a communication (really copious for the occasion) between the strangers and the unknown gentleman whom they found in possession, hat and stick in hand. This was not my doing (for what had I to go upon?) and still less was it the doing of the person whom I supposed and whom I indeed quickly and definitely learned to be the daughter. She spoke52 but once — when her companion informed me that she was going out to Europe the next day to be married. Then she said, ‘Oh, mother!’ protestingly, in a tone which struck me in the darkness as doubly strange, exciting my curiosity to see her face.
It had taken her mother but a moment to come to that and to other things besides, after I had explained that I myself was waiting for Mrs. Nettlepoint, who would doubtless soon come back.
‘Well, she won’t know me — I guess she hasn’t ever heard much about me,’ the good lady said; ‘but I have come from Mrs. Allen and I guess that will make it all right. I presume you know Mrs. Allen?’
I was unacquainted with this influential53 personage, but I assented54 vaguely to the proposition. Mrs. Allen’s emissary was good-humoured and familiar, but rather appealing than insistent55 (she remarked that if her friend had found time to come in the afternoon — she had so much to do, being just up for the day, that she couldn’t be sure — it would be all right); and somehow even before she mentioned Merrimac Avenue (they had come all the way from there) my imagination had associated her with that indefinite social limbo56 known to the properly-constituted Boston mind as the South End — a nebulous region which condenses here and there into a pretty face, in which the daughters are an ‘improvement’ on the mothers and are sometimes acquainted with gentlemen resident in more distinguished57 districts of the New England capital — gentlemen whose wives and sisters in turn are not acquainted with them.
When at last Mrs. Nettlepoint came in, accompanied by candles and by a tray laden58 with glasses of coloured fluid which emitted a cool tinkling59, I was in a position to officiate as master of the ceremonies, to introduce Mrs. Mavis and Miss Grace Mavis, to represent that Mrs. Allen had recommended them — nay60, had urged them — to come that way, informally, and had been prevented only by the pressure of occupations so characteristic of her (especially when she was up from Mattapoisett just for a few hours’ shopping) from herself calling in the course of the day to explain who they were and what was the favour they had to ask of Mrs. Nettlepoint. Good-natured women understand each other even when divided by the line of topographical fashion, and our hostess had quickly mastered the main facts: Mrs. Allen’s visit in the morning in Merrimac Avenue to talk of Mrs. Amber’s great idea, the classes at the public schools in vacation (she was interested with an equal charity to that of Mrs. Mavis — even in such weather! — in those of the South End) for games and exercises and music, to keep the poor unoccupied children out of the streets; then the revelation that it had suddenly been settled almost from one hour to the other that Grace should sail for Liverpool, Mr. Porterfield at last being ready. He was taking a little holiday; his mother was with him, they had come over from Paris to see some of the celebrated61 old buildings in England, and he had telegraphed to say that if Grace would start right off they would just finish it up and be married. It often happened that when things had dragged on that way for years they were all huddled62 up at the end. Of course in such a case she, Mrs. Mavis, had had to fly round. Her daughter’s passage was taken, but it seemed too dreadful that she should make her journey all alone, the first time she had ever been at sea, without any companion or escort. She couldn’t go — Mr. Mavis was too sick: she hadn’t even been able to get him off to the seaside.
‘Well, Mrs. Nettlepoint is going in that ship,’ Mrs. Allen had said; and she had represented that nothing was simpler than to put the girl in her charge. When Mrs. Mavis had replied that that was all very well but that she didn’t know the lady, Mrs. Allen had declared that that didn’t make a speck63 of difference, for Mrs. Nettlepoint was kind enough for anything. It was easy enough to know her, if that was all the trouble. All Mrs. Mavis would have to do would be to go up to her the next morning when she took her daughter to the ship (she would see her there on the deck with her party) and tell her what she wanted. Mrs. Nettlepoint had daughters herself and she would easily understand. Very likely she would even look after Grace a little on the other side, in such a queer situation, going out alone to the gentleman she was engaged to; she would just help her to turn round before she was married. Mr. Porterfield seemed to think they wouldn’t wait long, once she was there: they would have it right over at the American consul’s. Mrs. Allen had said it would perhaps be better still to go and see Mrs. Nettlepoint beforehand, that day, to tell her what they wanted: then they wouldn’t seem to spring it on her just as she was leaving. She herself (Mrs. Allen) would call and say a word for them if she could save ten minutes before catching64 her train. If she hadn’t come it was because she hadn’t saved her ten minutes; but she had made them feel that they must come all the same. Mrs. Mavis liked that better, because on the ship in the morning there would be such a confusion. She didn’t think her daughter would be any trouble — conscientiously65 she didn’t. It was just to have some one to speak to her and not sally forth66 like a servant-girl going to a situation.
‘I see, I am to act as a sort of bridesmaid and to give her away,’ said Mrs. Nettlepoint. She was in fact kind enough for anything and she showed on this occasion that it was easy enough to know her. There is nothing more tiresome67 than complications at sea, but she accepted without a protest the burden of the young lady’s dependence68 and allowed her, as Mrs. Mavis said, to hook herself on. She evidently had the habit of patience, and her reception of her visitors’ story reminded me afresh (I was reminded of it whenever I returned to my native land) that my dear compatriots are the people in the world who most freely take mutual69 accommodation for granted. They have always had to help themselves, and by a magnanimous extension they confound helping70 each other with that. In no country are there fewer forms and more reciprocities.
It was doubtless not singular that the ladies from Merrimac Avenue should not feel that they were importunate71: what was striking was that Mrs. Nettlepoint did not appear to suspect it. However, she would in any case have thought it inhuman72 to show that — though I could see that under the surface she was amused at everything the lady from the South End took for granted. I know not whether the attitude of the younger visitor added or not to the merit of her good-nature. Mr. Porterfield’s intended took no part in her mother’s appeal, scarcely spoke, sat looking at the Back Bay and the lights on the long bridge. She declined the lemonade and the other mixtures which, at Mrs. Nettlepoint’s request, I offered her, while her mother partook freely of everything and I reflected (for I as freely consumed the reviving liquid) that Mr. Jasper had better hurry back if he wished to profit by the refreshment prepared for him.
Was the effect of the young woman’s reserve ungracious, or was it only natural that in her particular situation she should not have a flow of compliment at her command? I noticed that Mrs. Nettlepoint looked at her often, and certainly though she was undemonstrative Miss Mavis was interesting. The candle-light enabled me to see that if she was not in the very first flower of her youth she was still a handsome girl. Her eyes and hair were dark, her face was pale and she held up her head as if, with its thick braids, it were an appurtenance she was not ashamed of. If her mother was excellent and common she was not common (not flagrantly so) and perhaps not excellent. At all events she would not be, in appearance at least, a dreary73 appendage74, and (in the case of a person ‘hooking on’) that was always something gained. Is it because something of a romantic or pathetic interest usually attaches to a good creature who has been the victim of a ‘long engagement’ that this young lady made an impression on me from the first — favoured as I had been so quickly with this glimpse of her history? Certainly she made no positive appeal; she only held her tongue and smiled, and her smile corrected whatever suggestion might have forced itself upon me that the spirit was dead — the spirit of that promise of which she found herself doomed75 to carry out the letter.
What corrected it less, I must add, was an odd recollection which gathered vividness as I listened to it — a mental association which the name of Mr. Porterfield had evoked76. Surely I had a personal impression, over-smeared and confused, of the gentleman who was waiting at Liverpool, or who would be, for Mrs. Nettlepoint’s protégée. I had met him, known him, some time, somewhere, somehow, in Europe. Was he not studying something — very hard — somewhere, probably in Paris, ten years before, and did he not make extraordinarily77 neat drawings, linear and architectural? Didn’t he go to a table d’h?te, at two francs twenty-five, in the Rue6 Bonaparte, which I then frequented, and didn’t he wear spectacles and a Scotch78 plaid arranged in a manner which seemed to say, ‘I have trustworthy information that that is the way they do it in the Highlands’? Was he not exemplary and very poor, so that I supposed he had no overcoat and his tartan was what he slept under at night? Was he not working very hard still, and wouldn’t he be in the natural course, not yet satisfied that he knew enough to launch out? He would be a man of long preparations — Miss Mavis’s white face seemed to speak to one of that. It appeared to me that if I had been in love with her I should not have needed to lay such a train to marry her. Architecture was his line and he was a pupil of the école des Beaux Arts. This reminiscence grew so much more vivid with me that at the end of ten minutes I had a curious sense of knowing — by implication — a good deal about the young lady.
Even after it was settled that Mrs. Nettlepoint would do everything for her that she could her mother sat a little, sipping79 her syrup and telling how ‘low’ Mr. Mavis had been. At this period the girl’s silence struck me as still more conscious, partly perhaps because she deprecated her mother’s loquacity80 (she was enough of an ‘improvement’ to measure that) and partly because she was too full of pain at the idea of leaving her infirm, her perhaps dying father. I divined that they were poor and that she would take out a very small purse for her trousseau. Moreover for Mr. Porterfield to make up the sum his own case would have had to change. If he had enriched himself by the successful practice of his profession I had not encountered the buildings he had reared — his reputation had not come to my ears.
Mrs. Nettlepoint notified her new friends that she was a very inactive person at sea: she was prepared to suffer to the full with Miss Mavis, but she was not prepared to walk with her, to struggle with her, to accompany her to the table. To this the girl replied that she would trouble her little, she was sure: she had a belief that she should prove a wretched sailor and spend the voyage on her back. Her mother scoffed81 at this picture, prophesying82 perfect weather and a lovely time, and I said that if I might be trusted, as a tame old bachelor fairly sea-seasoned, I should be delighted to give the new member of our party an arm or any other countenance83 whenever she should require it. Both the ladies thanked me for this (taking my description only too literally), and the elder one declared that we were evidently going to be such a sociable group that it was too bad to have to stay at home. She inquired of Mrs. Nettlepoint if there were any one else — if she were to be accompanied by some of her family; and when our hostess mentioned her son — there was a chance of his embarking84 but (wasn’t it absurd?) he had not decided yet, she rejoined with extraordinary candour — ‘Oh dear, I do hope he’ll go: that would be so pleasant for Grace.’
Somehow the words made me think of poor Mr. Porterfield’s tartan, especially as Jasper Nettlepoint strolled in again at that moment. His mother instantly challenged him: it was ten o’clock; had he by chance made up his great mind? Apparently he failed to hear her, being in the first place surprised at the strange ladies and then struck with the fact that one of them was not strange. The young man, after a slight hesitation85, greeted Miss Mavis with a handshake and an ‘Oh, good evening, how do you do?’ He did not utter her name, and I could see that he had forgotten it; but she immediately pronounced his, availing herself of an American girl’s discretion86 to introduce him to her mother.
‘Well, you might have told me you knew him all this time!’ Mrs. Mavis exclaimed. Then smiling at Mrs. Nettlepoint she added, ‘It would have saved me a worry, an acquaintance already begun.’
‘Ah, my son’s acquaintances ——!’ Mrs. Nettlepoint murmured.
‘Yes, and my daughter’s too!’ cried Mrs. Mavis, jovially87. ‘Mrs. Allen didn’t tell us you were going,’ she continued, to the young man.
‘She would have been clever if she had been able to!’ Mrs. Nettlepoint ejaculated.
‘Dear mother, I have my telegram,’ Jasper remarked, looking at Grace Mavis.
‘I know you very little,’ the girl said, returning his observation.
‘I’ve danced with you at some ball — for some sufferers by something or other.’
‘I think it was an inundation,’ she replied, smiling. ‘But it was a long time ago — and I haven’t seen you since.’
‘I have been in far countries — to my loss. I should have said it was for a big fire.’
‘It was at the Horticultural Hall. I didn’t remember your name,’ said Grace Mavis.
‘That is very unkind of you, when I recall vividly88 that you had a pink dress.’
‘Oh, I remember that dress — you looked lovely in it!’ Mrs. Mavis broke out. ‘You must get another just like it — on the other side.’
‘Yes, your daughter looked charming in it,’ said Jasper Nettlepoint. Then he added, to the girl — ‘Yet you mentioned my name to your mother.’
‘It came back to me — seeing you here. I had no idea this was your home.’
‘Well, I confess it isn’t, much. Oh, there are some drinks!’ Jasper went on, approaching the tray and its glasses.
‘Indeed there are and quite delicious,’ Mrs. Mavis declared.
‘Won’t you have another then? — a pink one, like your daughter’s gown.’
‘With pleasure, sir. Oh, do see them over,’ Mrs. Mavis continued, accepting from the young man’s hand a third tumbler.
‘My mother and that gentleman? Surely they can take care of themselves,’ said Jasper Nettlepoint.
‘But my daughter — she has a claim as an old friend.’
‘Jasper, what does your telegram say?’ his mother interposed.
He gave no heed45 to her question: he stood there with his glass in his hand, looking from Mrs. Mavis to Miss Grace.
‘Ah, leave her to me, madam; I’m quite competent,’ I said to Mrs. Mavis.
Then the young man looked at me. The next minute he asked of the young lady — ‘Do you mean you are going to Europe?’
‘Yes, to-morrow; in the same ship as your mother.’
‘That’s what we’ve come here for, to see all about it,’ said Mrs. Mavis.
‘My son, take pity on me and tell me what light your telegram throws,’ Mrs. Nettlepoint went on.
‘I will, dearest, when I’ve quenched89 my thirst.’ And Jasper slowly drained his glass.
‘Well, you’re worse than Gracie,’ Mrs. Mavis commented. ‘She was first one thing and then the other — but only about up to three o’clock yesterday.’
‘Excuse me — won’t you take something?’ Jasper inquired of Gracie; who however declined, as if to make up for her mother’s copious consommation. I made privately90 the reflection that the two ladies ought to take leave, the question of Mrs. Nettlepoint’s goodwill91 being so satisfactorily settled and the meeting of the morrow at the ship so near at hand; and I went so far as to judge that their protracted92 stay, with their hostess visibly in a fidget, was a sign of a want of breeding. Miss Grace after all then was not such an improvement on her mother, for she easily might have taken the initiative of departure, in spite of Mrs. Mavis’s imbibing93 her glass of syrup in little interspaced sips94, as if to make it last as long as possible. I watched the girl with an increasing curiosity; I could not help asking myself a question or two about her and even perceiving already (in a dim and general way) that there were some complications in her position. Was it not a complication that she should have wished to remain long enough to assuage95 a certain suspense, to learn whether or no Jasper were going to sail? Had not something particular passed between them on the occasion or at the period to which they had covertly96 alluded, and did she really not know that her mother was bringing her to his mother’s, though she apparently had thought it well not to mention the circumstance? Such things were complications on the part of a young lady betrothed97 to that curious cross-barred phantom98 of a Mr. Porterfield. But I am bound to add that she gave me no further warrant for suspecting them than by the simple fact of her encouraging her mother, by her immobility, to linger. Somehow I had a sense that she knew better. I got up myself to go, but Mrs. Nettlepoint detained me after seeing that my movement would not be taken as a hint, and I perceived she wished me not to leave my fellow-visitors on her hands. Jasper complained of the closeness of the room, said that it was not a night to sit in a room — one ought to be out in the air, under the sky. He denounced the windows that overlooked the water for not opening upon a balcony or a terrace, until his mother, whom he had not yet satisfied about his telegram, reminded him that there was a beautiful balcony in front, with room for a dozen people. She assured him we would go and sit there if it would please him.
‘It will be nice and cool to-morrow, when we steam into the great ocean,’ said Miss Mavis, expressing with more vivacity99 than she had yet thrown into any of her utterances100 my own thought of half an hour before. Mrs. Nettlepoint replied that it would probably be freezing cold, and her son murmured that he would go and try the drawing-room balcony and report upon it. Just as he was turning away he said, smiling, to Miss Mavis — ‘Won’t you come with me and see if it’s pleasant?’
‘Oh, well, we had better not stay all night!’ her mother exclaimed, but without moving. The girl moved, after a moment’s hesitation; she rose and accompanied Jasper into the other room. I observed that her slim tallness showed to advantage as she walked and that she looked well as she passed, with her head thrown back, into the darkness of the other part of the house. There was something rather marked, rather surprising (I scarcely knew why, for the act was simple enough) in her doing so, and perhaps it was our sense of this that held the rest of us somewhat stiffly silent as she remained away. I was waiting for Mrs. Mavis to go, so that I myself might go; and Mrs. Nettlepoint was waiting for her to go so that I might not. This doubtless made the young lady’s absence appear to us longer than it really was — it was probably very brief. Her mother moreover, I think, had a vague consciousness of embarrassment101. Jasper Nettlepoint presently returned to the back drawing-room to get a glass of syrup for his companion, and he took occasion to remark that it was lovely on the balcony: one really got some air, the breeze was from that quarter. I remembered, as he went away with his tinkling tumbler, that from my hand, a few minutes before, Miss Mavis had not been willing to accept this innocent offering. A little later Mrs. Nettlepoint said — ‘Well, if it’s so pleasant there we had better go ourselves.’ So we passed to the front and in the other room met the two young people coming in from the balcony. I wondered in the light of subsequent events exactly how long they had been sitting there together. (There were three or four cane102 chairs which had been placed there for the summer.) If it had been but five minutes, that only made subsequent events more curious. ‘We must go, mother,’ Miss Mavis immediately said; and a moment later, with a little renewal103 of chatter104 as to our general meeting on the ship, the visitors had taken leave. Jasper went down with them to the door and as soon as they had gone out Mrs. Nettlepoint exclaimed — ‘Ah, but she’ll be a bore — she’ll be a bore!’
‘Not through talking too much — surely.’
‘An affectation of silence is as bad. I hate that particular pose; it’s coming up very much now; an imitation of the English, like everything else. A girl who tries to be statuesque at sea — that will act on one’s nerves!’
‘I don’t know what she tries to be, but she succeeds in being very handsome.’
‘So much the better for you. I’ll leave her to you, for I shall be shut up. I like her being placed under my “care.”’
‘She will be under Jasper’s,’ I remarked.
‘Ah, he won’t go — I want it too much.’
‘I have an idea he will go.’
‘Why didn’t he tell me so then — when he came in?’
‘He was diverted by Miss Mavis — a beautiful unexpected girl sitting there.’
‘Diverted from his mother — trembling for his decision?’
‘She’s an old friend; it was a meeting after a long separation.’
‘Yes, such a lot of them as he knows!’ said Mrs. Nettlepoint.
‘Such a lot of them?’
‘He has so many female friends — in the most varied105 circles.’
‘Well, we can close round her then — for I on my side knew, or used to know, her young man.’
‘Her young man?’
‘The fiancé, the intended, the one she is going out to. He can’t by the way be very young now.’
‘How odd it sounds!’ said Mrs. Nettlepoint.
I was going to reply that it was not odd if you knew Mr. Porterfield, but I reflected that that perhaps only made it odder. I told my companion briefly106 who he was — that I had met him in the old days in Paris, when I believed for a fleeting107 hour that I could learn to paint, when I lived with the jeunesse des écoles, and her comment on this was simply — ‘Well, he had better have come out for her!’
‘Perhaps so. She looked to me as she sat there as if she might change her mind at the last moment.’
‘About her marriage?’
‘About sailing. But she won’t change now.’
Jasper came back, and his mother instantly challenged him. ‘Well, are you going?’
‘Yes, I shall go,’ he said, smiling. ‘I have got my telegram.’
‘Oh, your telegram!’ I ventured to exclaim. ‘That charming girl is your telegram.’
He gave me a look, but in the dusk I could not make out very well what it conveyed. Then he bent108 over his mother, kissing her. ‘My news isn’t particularly satisfactory. I am going for you.’
‘Oh, you humbug109!’ she rejoined. But of course she was delighted.
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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profaning
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| v.不敬( profane的现在分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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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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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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12
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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13
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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14
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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15
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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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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17
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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18
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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19
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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20
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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21
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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22
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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23
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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24
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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25
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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26
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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27
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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28
syrups
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| n.糖浆，糖汁( syrup的名词复数 )；糖浆类药品 | |
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29
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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30
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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31
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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32
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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34
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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35
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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36
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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37
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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38
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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39
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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40
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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41
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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42
abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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43
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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44
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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45
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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46
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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47
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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48
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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49
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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52
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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53
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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54
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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56
limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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57
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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58
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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59
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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60
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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61
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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62
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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63
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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64
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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65
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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66
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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67
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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68
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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69
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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70
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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71
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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72
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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73
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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74
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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75
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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76
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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77
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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78
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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79
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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80
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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81
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
prophesying
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的现在分词 ) | |
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83
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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84
embarking
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| 乘船( embark的现在分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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85
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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86
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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87
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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88
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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89
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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90
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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91
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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92
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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93
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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94
sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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96
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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97
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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98
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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99
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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100
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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101
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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102
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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103
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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104
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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105
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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106
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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107
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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108
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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109
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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