Christian nodded gratified acknowledgment of the words and their spirit, with a glow in his dark eyes. In little more than an hour he would be on his way to London—that mighty2, almost fabulous3 goal of his lifelong dreams. He was already dressed for the journey, in a traveling-suit of rough, fawn-colored cloth, and as he sat at ease in the breakfast-room with his cousin’s wife, his glance wandered very often from her face to a pleased contemplation of these garments. They were what he individually liked best in the wonderful collection of clothes for which a fashionable tailor had come from London to measure him, and which were this moment being packed by the man up-stairs in bags and portmanteaus equally new. The tweeds enabled him to feel more like an Englishman than he had succeeded in doing before.
He smiled diffidently at her. “I am so excited about going,” he said, his voice wavering between exuberance4 and appeal—“and yet I ought to be thinking of nothing but my sorrow in leaving you dear people. But that will come to me soon enough—in a storm of homesickness—when once I find myself really alone.”
“Oh, I’ll not deny we expect a little homesickness,” she replied to him, cheerfully—“but it must not be enough to at all take the edge off your spirits. Oh, you’ll be vastly entertained and interested by all you see and hear. Young Lord Lingfield—you’ll be seeing him to-night at dinner—he will be greatly pleased to take you about, and properly introduce you; He will do it better than any other we can think of. He is not by any means an intellectual gladiator, but he is good-looking and amiable5 and he goes everywhere.”
“He is my relation, too, I think Emanuel said?”
“Let’s work it out—his grandfather’s sister was your grandmother. Yes, that is it. She was the Lady Clarissa Poynes, the sister of the old earl of Chobham, who used to wear the blue coat and brass6 buttons to the end of his days. So she would be the aunt of the present earl, and the grand-aunt of young Lingfield. You stand in exactly the same relationship to Lord Lingfield that you would to a son of Emanuel’s—if he had one, poor man!”
Christian had long since become sensible of the pathos7 which colored these references to the childlessness of the house. A tender instinct impelled8 him to hasten a diversion.
“And how strange it is!” he cried. “They are as close to me, these people, in blood as Emanuel is—and yet I care nothing for them whatever. I shall meet them, and know them, and not feel that I am bound to them at all—whereas Emanuel is like a brother to me, whom I have been with and loved all my life. And you,” he added, with a smile in his eyes—“you are more than any sister to me.”
“Well, then, let me talk to you like a sister,” she rejoined.
He thought he had not seen her before in precisely9 the mood which was discernible in her face and tone this morning. Outwardly she was as gay and light-hearted as ever, and certainly she had not seemed on any previous day to come so near being beautiful as well. The sense of sheer pleasure in being where she was, in listening to her and looking’ at her, and holding her affectionately bright attention for his own thoughts, was peculiarly strong in him to-day. But there was also the consciousness of a new gravity in her attitude toward him—a kind of yearning11 apprehension12 of dangers threatening him. He saw again in her eyes when she looked at him that likeness13 to his mother’s glance—a wistfully sad glance as he most often recalled it. And yet Kathleen smiled merrily with it all, when occasion required.
“You are entering upon the great experience now,” she said to him: “I think it was very wise of Emanuel to show you first what we may call his ideal state of society. By all the rules, it ought to help you to understand in the right way what you will see of the society which—well, which isn’t in an ideal state. But there are certain things which get to be understood, not so much by brains, as by years. That is to say, the very cleverest youth may not be able to see, in this one respect, what is plain enough to most dull persons at forty. Emanuel tells me that he has talked with you about women in general.”
“He does not like them very much,” said Christian, laughingly.
She twisted the corners of her mouth in a droll14 little grimace15, which seemed to express approval of his mirth, and something more besides.
“He takes them with tremendous seriousness,” she answered. “That is his way with everything. He makes all sorts of classifications—the bigger they are and the more complicated the better he likes them—and then he treats each one as a problem, and he worries at it with all his energy until he works out a satisfactory solution. It is only in that sense that he has a grievance16 against women. He has proceeded upon the theory that the sex is a unit, for philosophical17 purposes at least, and that he ought to be able to get at the rules which govern its actions. But we continue to baffle him,” she added, again with the playful curl of the lips.
“Oh, you—you are not in the problem,” protested Christian. “For you and his mother he has only the veneration18 one gives to one’s favorite saints.”
“His mother was a great woman,” said Kathleen, serious once more. “I never saw her, but she is my patron saint, as you put it, quite as much as his. I never permit myself to doubt that we should have loved each other deeply—and it is the sweetest thing any one can think of me, or say to me—to link us together. But even the saints have their specialties—and that implies limitations. I have a notion that Emanuel’s mother did not know many women, and so fell into a way of generalizing about them. Emanuel has that same tendency. I, who work among them daily, and make it my business to be teacher and mistress and mother and sister to some five hundred of them, young and old, foolish and wise—I come to believe that these generalizations19 are entirely20 mistaken. If a woman is brought up like a man, and circumstanced precisely like a man, and knows nothing of any conventions save those which control a man—why, then you can’t tell the difference between her opinions and actions and those of her brother. But you never get the chance to view a woman under those conditions.”
“But here we shall see them!” cried Christian, with premature21 enthusiasm. “You will change all that!”
“Oh, no, I shan’t,” she answered abruptly22. “It is not being tried—it is not desirable. What I am doing proceeds quite on orthodox lines. We make a point of developing them in the way of usefulness—material usefulness, I mean. We teach them the useful accomplishments—spinning, weaving, sewing, dairy and poultry23 work, and above all things good cooking.”
“That I can well believe,” he declared. “I have never eaten so many good dishes in my life as here.”
“Yes, I have a talent in that direction,” she assented24. “And I am prouder of it because it represents a triumph over my ancestral prejudices. You will get nothing good to eat in Ireland. The Irish have never respected food as a proper subject for serious human thought. It is the rarest thing to hear them mention it. There may be some fine spiritual quality in that—but at all events we cook well here, and I have worked a complete revolution in that respect on the estate. There are certainly no such cooks and housekeepers25 anywhere else in England as my women. But you see what I mean. There is no effort to take women away from the work they have always been doing, but only to make them do it better.”
“But that in itself is very much,” urged Christian. Somehow he had the feeling that he was defending the System against a critic.
“Undoubtedly,” she admitted. “And of course we do something more than that. In a good many cases, when it was not inconvenient26, I have put young girls of aptitude27 forward to learn designing and other arts. Some of them have made me some very tolerable tapestry28, and a few of them are as intelligent and valuable in the greenhouses as our best men. In the matter of music they really beat them. Emanuel insists on a choir29 of glee singers in each village—and at Christmas time we have a competition of ‘waits’ which will be worth your while coming to hear. For my part, I have a string orchestra of girls that I should not be ashamed to have play in London.”
The word seemed to bring them back, “You were going to speak to me,” Christian ventured, “about London. One thing—I shall see you there often, shall I not?”
She slowly shook her head. “No, we have outgrown31 London, I’m afraid. It can be proved, I believe, that it is the biggest town in the world—but to us it is too small for comfort. It is now more than a year since we have been up at all. Why should we go? We have the National Gallery by heart, and the year’s pictures are rather distressing32 than otherwise. The theaters are intellectually beneath notice. There is the opera of course, and the concerts, but the people annoy us by talking loudly, and besides, we have our own music, and occasionally we bring down a Paderewski or a Sarasate for our people to hear. At the houses where we would naturally go, the women talk about matters of which I know absolutely nothing, and Emanuel either quarrels with the men about what they call their politics, or chokes silently with rage and disgust. And then the spectacle of the people in the streets—the poor of London!—that fairly sickens our hearts. We have no joy of going at all. Occasionally we have guests down here, but it is not a very happy time they have of it. Everything is so strange to them that they are confused, and walk about with constraint33, as if they were being shown around an asylum34. So it happens that I see very few women of my own class—and really know less about them than most people. And yet,” she added, with a twinkle in her eye, “so naturally audacious a race are the Irish—it is precisely about ladies in London society that I am going to read you a lecture.”
Christian drew up his feet, and assumed an air of delighted anticipation35.
“First of all, you are six and twenty, and you will be thinking of marrying. What is more, you are what is called a great match, and for every thought that you give to the subject of a wife, others will give ten thousand to the subject of you as a possible husband.”
The young man looked into her kindly36 eyes with a sustained glance of awakening37 thought. This dazzling and princely position which she had thus outlined—sure enough, it was his! How extraordinary that this had not suggested itself to him before! Or had the perception of it not really lain dormant38 in his consciousness all the while? This question propounded39 itself to a mind which was engrossed40 in something else—for of a sudden there rose upon the blank background of his thoughts the luminous41 face of a lady, beautiful, distinguished42, exquisitely43 sensitized, and as by the trick of a dream she first wore a large garden hat, and then was bare-headed, her fair hair gathered loosely back into a careless knot. The mental picture expanded, to show the full length of her queenly figure as she descended44 a broad staircase, with one lovely hand like a lily against the oak of the rail. Then it contracted, and underwent a strange metamorphosis, for it was another face which he saw, a pale, earnest, clever face, and instead of the great stairway, there was the laced tawdriness of a French railway compartment45.
Then, with a start, and a backward movement of the head, he was free of dreamland, and blushingly conscious of having stared his cousin out of countenance46. He laughed with awkward embarrassment47. “I—I suppose it is true—what you say,” he remarked, stumblingly.
She had perhaps some clew to the character of his reverie. She smiled in a gently quizzical way, but went on soberly enough. “The thing of all things,” she said, “is to be clearly and profoundly convinced in your own mind that your marriage will be the most important event of your life—that it will indeed affect, for good or for bad, every conceivable element of your life. You have the kind of temperament48 which would be peculiarly susceptible49 to such intimate influences. There are great numbers of men—the vast majority—to whom it does not matter so much. They accommodate themselves to their burdens, and shuffle50 along somehow, with the patience of a cart-horse. But you—the wrong wife would wreck51 you and kill you. I am speaking frankly52, laddie,”—she gave the novel word an intonation53 which made it music in his ears—“because you have no mother, and because you are going into a very trying and delicate situation with what I feel to be a pathetic lack of preparation.”
Christian drew his chair nearer to her, and crossed his knees, and leaned back in an attitude of intimate ease. The conversation appealed powerfully to him as having more of the atmosphere of domesticity and sweet home influences in it than any he had ever heard.
“I know almost nothing at all of women,” he said, quite simply. “The mothers of my pupils I saw sometimes and occasionally a sister, but they were not in any sense my friends. As to marriage—of course that has never been in my head. Until only the other day, the idea of a wife would have been absurd. But now—as you say—it is not any longer absurd.” He paused and gazed absently past her, as if in pursuit of the thoughts his own words had set in motion. “I wonder—I wonder”—he murmured, and then turned his bright eyes to her, full of wistful expectancy54. “Have you, par30 exemple, some one in your mind for me?” he asked.
She laughed and shook her head. The implication in his tone, of entire readiness to accept the bride of her selection, had its amusing and its flattering sides; upon a second glance, however, it contained something else not so much to her liking55. She frowned a little at this something.
“Oh, you must not approach the subject in that spirit,” she adjured56 him. “It is the one affair of all others on earth in which you must be guided absolutely by your own heart and your own mind. We speak of the heart and mind as distinct from each other; I don’t know that they are not one and the same. Perhaps I would put it this way—when your heart and your mind are completely agreed, when your personal liking and your deliberate judgment57 pull together in exactly the same direction—so that it seems to you that they are one and the same thing—then—then——-”
“Then what?” demanded Christian, bending forward.
“Oh, I am not fortunate in expressing myself to-day,” Kathleen declared, with a gesture of playful impatience58. “But in general, this is what I wanted to say: Do not be betrayed into haste in this matter of deciding about a girl. You will see a large number of extremely attractive young ladies. They will certainly not be looking or behaving their worst for your benefit, and you on your side will be lacking the experience to tell precisely what it is all worth. So walk quietly along, with your wits about you, and see what there is to be seen for a time, and commit yourself to nothing. A year hence, for example, you will look back upon your present condition of mind with surprise. You will not seem to yourself at all the same person. I can’t promise that you’ll be happier,” she added, with a little smiling sigh, “but you will know a great deal more about what you want—or rather about making sure that you are getting what you want.”
“I know what I shall do,” he declared, after a moment’s reflection. “I shall come always to you, and beg your wise and good advice. You will tell me if I am making a bad choice.”
“You talk as if you were entering upon a lifelong series of experiments,” she laughed at him. “No, I’ll undertake no such responsibility as that, young man.” She explained, more gravely: “It is never quite possible for a friend, no matter how wise and fond the friend may be, to advise upon this matter. To give information upon the subject, that is another affair. But specific advice, no. But let me finish what I had in mind to say. You have seen here, during this past fortnight, what great hopes are built upon your administration of your affairs when you come into the title. No, don’t speak yet. You must not pledge yourself at all to the System. It would be unfair to let you do it. But at all events you have seen it, and you will think it all over, and, whether you take it up altogether or not, I know it will have its effect on you. You will set an ideal of usefulness and duty before you, and you will have your heart fixed59 on realizing it. Well, then, I counsel you above all things to keep that idea in mind whenever you think of marriage. A man has a good many sides to his life, but the side which is most vital to him is that of the work he wants to do in the world. If the wife fits perfectly60 on that side, the discrepancies61 elsewhere are of small account by comparison. They smooth away, they adjust themselves. But the misfit on the side of the man’s ambitions—that never effaces62 itself. And so, just in proportion as the work you want to do becomes clear in your mind, you ought to define to yourself the type of woman who will be most sympathetic toward that work, and who will best help you in it—or rather, who will help you in it in the way you like best. I don’t say you will find the perfect type of that woman—but you should have the type before you, and be able to measure people by its standards. But I have harangued63 you long enough! There is something in the atmosphere here: we all deliver lectures to each other at the most unscrupulous length. Poor boy! We’ve done nothing but make speeches to you since you showed in sight.”
Christian deprecated her suggestion with persuasive64 hands. “I have learned here, I think, all that I know,” he protested. He did not, however, insist upon further generalizations. “One thing you said,” he remarked, thoughtfully, “puts a question into my head. You said it was better to give information than advice. Now there is so much that I am in ignorance about. Perhaps I do wrong to ask you—but I am curious to know more about the people of the family—our own family. There are no ladies of my own blood? I mean, all I have seen or heard of come to us by marriage, like yourself.”
“You hit upon the weakest and unhappiest point,” she replied. “There has not been a daughter born in the Torr family for over a hundred years. I have always insisted that this has operated like a curse on the family. The beautiful humanizing charm of little girls about the house—this they have never felt. The mothers have had no daughters to lean upon, the men have never known what a sister was like. That one fact, it seems to me, is enough to account for everything that is hard and rough and cruel in their story.”
Christian bowed his head in silent token of comprehension.
“I am always more grieved than angry, when I’m thinking of the black sheep in the family fold,” she went on. “They had never a chance. It was like a tradition in the family that the father should be a brute65 and the mother a fool. A daughter here and there might have softened66 the combination—but with little boys alone face to face with it—what could they do? They grew up in the stables and the kennels67. Think of those two young men whom you met at Caermere, for example. Lord Julius told me of their scene with you, and I’m far from blaming you—but think of their bringing up! Their father, Lord Edward, I remember very well. I saw him when I was a girl, at the Punchestown races, and my brother told me his name. Even without it, I should have remembered his face as the coarsest and meanest I ever saw. He married a woman out of some vile68 gambling69 set that he was in as a young man. She is still alive somewhere, and has an allowance from Lord Julius for suppressing herself, and not using the family name. Well, when I think of the blood in those two boys, and of the horrors of their childhood till they were taken away from their mother, and sent into the country to school—upon my soul I can only wonder that they come so near decency70 as they do. Your encounter with them happened to strike out sparks, but you must remember what a blow it represented to them.”
The young man gave a somewhat perfunctory nod. His sympathies were somehow obdurate71 upon this particular point.
“Oh, and that reminds me,” she went on. “I said that the family was daughterless—but Eddy72 has a little girl. It is very quaint73 to think what she will grow up like, under the maternal74 wing of Cora Bayard. Yet I am told there are worse mothers than Cora. I’ve never seen her, myself.”
“I saw her at Caermere,” Christian remarked. “She seemed very frightened and sad—and since it was because of me, I did not look much at her. I remember only the effect of a likeness to Pierrot—the red lips on the white face. But”—he drew his chair still nearer, and betrayed by manner and tone alike his approach to a subject of more than casual interest—“the other lady whom I saw there—Lady Cressage—I had much conversation with her. I feel that she and I are friends. I liked her very much indeed—but I have no information about her whatever. If I am permitted to confess it—I tried to talk about her with Lord Julius and with Emanuel, but they at once spoke75 of other things. You see how frankly I am telling you everything; that is because you make me feel so wonderfully at home. But perhaps you do not like to talk about her, either.”
She smiled pleasantly enough in comment upon his faltering76 conclusion. “Oh, I think you exaggerate the conspiracy77 of silence,” she answered. “Neither Lord Julius nor Emanuel has anything hostile to say about Edith Cressage, but she doesn’t quite appeal to their imagination, and so they find nothing of any sort to say. But it is only fair to remember that they are both men with peculiar10 and exacting78 standards for women. They would be equally silent about a hundred other ladies of unblemished character, and of beauty and wit untold79. It is nothing at all against her that she hasn’t excited their enthusiasm. I do not know her at all well, but I think she is very nice. Now—is that what you wanted me to say?”
The mild note of banter80 which informed her words put Christian if possible even more at his ease. He stood up, with his hands in the sleek81 pockets of his new coat, and bent82 down upon her a joyous83 smile.
“No, ever so much more!” he insisted, gaily84. “She is very beautiful; she has the air and the distinction of a grande dame85; she speaks like a flute86, and what she says is clever and apropos87; she is unhappy, and yet with no bitterness toward any one; she seemed to like me very much, and, mind you, she was the first fine lady whom I had ever met. Enfin, she is my cousin, and the fact impresses me. What is more natural than that I should be eager to know all about her?”
Kathleen did not respond readily to his mood. She knitted her brows slightly once more, and looked away from him toward the window. “It is rather hard for me to explain,” she began at last, doubtfully. “From a good many points of view—her own included—I dare say we do her an injustice88. Don’t misunderstand me; we are all sorry for her—and I for one have my moments of doubt whether we oughtn’t to be something more than sorry.”
“Yes, that is the phrase,” put in Christian, strenuously89. “I think that I myself am something more than sorry for her.”
She looked up at him, at first with a shadow of apprehension in her eyes. Then she estimated aright his enthusiasm with a gentle smile. “I will explain as well as I can,” she said, softly. “As you say, you are entitled to be told. The feeling, then, is—I am speaking of Lord Julius and Emanuel, and more or less of myself too—the feeling is that she ought not to have made the marriage she did. Everybody knew that the young man she married was a worthless creature—a violent, ignorant, low-minded fellow. You could not see him, much less talk with him, without recognizing this. One knows perfectly well that she must have hated the very thought of him as a lover or a companion. But he is the heir to a dukedom, and so she marries him. You see what I mean; it seemed an unpleasant thing to us.”
Christian considered with a puzzled air the situation thus defined. “But,” he commented, with hesitation90, “it is the metier of a young woman to get a husband, and to get the best one for herself that she can. If she is so beautiful that a man wishes to make her a duchess, why, that is her triumph. Would you have her forego it? And if she says ‘no’, why, then the next one he asks says ‘yes’—and it is merely that the first one has waived91 her place in the queue for another. The queue remains92 the same. And if this were not so, why, then, young men who are not very good, they would get no wives at all. But,” he added, in extenuation93 of his dissent94, “all these matters are so differently regarded, you know, in France.” She did not look altogether pleased with him. “I thought you would have caught my meaning more readily,” she said, “despite your Continental95 point of view. For that matter, it is the common English point of view also. There is a matrimonial market, of course, and girls offer themselves in it to the highest bidder96, and nothing that we can do will change it. But at least we are free to think what we like of the wretched business—and to hold our own opinions of the people who traffic in it.”
Kathleen had stated her position with a certain argumentative warmth, which gave her tone a novel effect of reproof97. The sight now of the young man’s saddened and surprised expression sent her mood up with a rebound98. She put a hand on his arm, as he stood before her, and reassured99 him by a kindly laugh. “Ah, now,” she said, with genial100 pleading in her soft voice, “don’t be making a mountain of my molehill. I only wanted you to understand how we felt. And as I have told you, we have our reservations about even that feeling. The poor girl did only what she was expected to do—what her mother and her family and all the friends that surrounded her took it quite as a matter of course that she should do. Probably she never once encountered the opinion that she should do otherwise. No doubt that is to be said for her. In fact, I should never have dreamed of blaming her to you, if you had not pressed me. And after it’s all said and done, you may take it from me that perhaps I don’t blame her so very much. She was poor, and not over comfortable at home, I think, and she was very young, and people ran after her to an extraordinary extent—and to be the beauty of the season in London is enough to turn any one’s head. Poor creature—it’s bitterly enough she’s paid for her whistle!”
He smiled down into her eyes. “That is how I knew you would end by speaking of her,” he said. “It is in that same way that she moves me—by my compassion101. And this is my fancy”—he began, in a more vivacious102 tone—“I should like to tell it to you—it seems that I am to have the power to do so many such wonderful things—well, then, nothing would delight me more than to be very good to her. It is my fantaisie—and there is no harm in it, is there?—to atone103 to her for some of the unhappiness she has suffered. I have thought about it much since I left Caermere. It seems that it would be a good thing for me to do—like an act of piety104. You must remember—she was the first lady who spoke kindly to me in England. And I think you will be pleased with me for being grateful. But, of course, if Emanuel tells me ‘no’——”
“Oh, no one will tell you ‘no,’” she assured him, rising as she spoke, and looking into his face with beaming eyes. “It is the kind of spirit we like in you. Never imagine that we will be obstacles in its way. Only be on your guard against the soft heart running away with you. The world is full of clever and adroit105 people who practice upon innocent generosity106. It is not so much the worth of what they wheedle107 from you, as the shock of your discovery of their tricks. That hurts a young nature, and very often callouses108 and hardens it. But here I am, lecturing you again!”
Christian had not, in truth, been following her remarks with complete attention. Something had come up in his mind, which by the time she stopped he seemed to have turned over and over, and examined from many standpoints, and finally decided109 to speak about.
“I was not wholly exact,” he began, with constraint, “when I said that Lady Cressage was the first lady who spoke kindly to me in England. I mentioned it to Lord Julius—there was a very charming and good young lady who traveled with me from Rouen, and crossed on the boat—and it is a very curious thing, but when we became acquainted, and I hinted to her about my story, she knew who I was. Indeed, it was she who told me who I was. I had the whole wonderful tale from her—and the kindness and sweet sympathy with which she told it to me, a little at a time—ah, that is what I will never forget! I am bound to remember her with gratitude110 all my life. And that is another fantaisie of mine—that I shall do something good for her. Oh, she has no selfish thoughts! She would not even tell me her name!”
Kathleen’s comment was prefaced by a mirthful chuckle111. “I can’t deny that gratitude is a very active and resourceful element in your composition,” she declared, and laughed again. “Oh, we’ll advertise for her. How would this do: ‘The young lady who meets returning lost heirs to the British nobility at Rouen, and lets them down easily’? Or we might——”
“Ah,” Christian interrupted, pleadingly, “I am really very sincere about her. You cannot imagine anything finer or more delicate than her character. And besides,”—he added this with visible reluctance—“I have learned since who she is. Lady Cressage told me. She is the sister of the lady you call Cora—the wife of that young man Edward—but she is not an actress! It is not in the least her type! She earns her own living—she has some work to do—I think it is with a writing-machine—that is, a type-writer, n’est-ce pas?”
Mrs. Emanuel did not immediately reply, but moved to the window, looked out and then walked slowly back to where he stood. “I am not going to suggest an unkind thought about this girl,” she said, deliberately112. “I would not want you to think differently of her, or of the grateful impulse you have toward her. Indeed, I have heard something of her—and it is much to her credit. But—this sounds a mean thing to say, and yet it has its important true side—people should stick to their class. Bear that always in mind. There seem to be brilliant exceptions to the rule, whenever we look about us—but just the same, the rule exists. But—now I will stop, once for all!” She mused113 at him, with a twinkling eye. “You poor lad, there’s something about you that draws down lectures as a lightning-rod draws electricity. And here’s the trap!”
When Emanuel returned from London a few days later, to report that his young cousin had been comfortably installed in chambers114 on Duke Street, St. James’s, and seemed to get on capitally with Lord Lingfield, who was showing him the ropes, Kathleen received the news with less than her accustomed cheerfulness.
“I haven’t been quite happy, thinking of him alone in London,” she admitted, in the course of their conversation. “I feel, somehow, as if we should have gone up, and taken a house for the winter.”
“Ah, but, sweetheart,” he urged, almost reproachfully, “you see how I am up to my eyes in all sorts of work. This is really about the most trying and ticklish115 stage we have gone through yet. If the fibrous silk processes are what is claimed for them, and your girls display the aptitude that you count upon——”
But Kathleen for once seemed not to listen. She had turned, and moved a few steps listlessly away. She took a flower from a vase, picked it to pieces and gazed in a brown study at the meaningless fragments.
“Yes, I know,” she remarked at last, with a half sigh. Then she threw the petals116 into the grate, and, with a decisive little shake of head and shoulders, wheeled round, and came smilingly to her husband.
“And whom did you see in town?” she asked.
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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exuberance
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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pathos
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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13
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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14
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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16
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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18
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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19
generalizations
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| 一般化( generalization的名词复数 )； 普通化； 归纳； 概论 | |
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20
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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21
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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22
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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23
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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24
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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26
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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27
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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28
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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29
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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30
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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31
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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32
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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33
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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34
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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35
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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36
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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37
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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38
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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39
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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41
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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42
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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43
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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44
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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45
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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46
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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47
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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48
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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49
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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50
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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51
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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52
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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53
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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54
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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55
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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56
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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57
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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58
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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59
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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60
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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61
discrepancies
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| n.差异，不符合（之处），不一致（之处）( discrepancy的名词复数 ) | |
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62
effaces
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| v.擦掉( efface的第三人称单数 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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63
harangued
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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65
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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66
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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67
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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68
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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69
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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70
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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71
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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72
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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73
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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74
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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75
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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76
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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77
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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78
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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79
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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80
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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81
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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82
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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83
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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84
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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85
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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86
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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87
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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88
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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89
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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90
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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91
waived
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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92
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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93
extenuation
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| n.减轻罪孽的借口；酌情减轻；细 | |
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94
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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95
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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96
bidder
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| n.(拍卖时的)出价人，报价人，投标人 | |
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97
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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98
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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99
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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100
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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101
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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102
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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103
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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104
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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105
adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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106
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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107
wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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108
callouses
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| n.硬皮，老茧( callous的名词复数 )v.（使）硬结，（使）起茧( callous的第三人称单数 )；（使）冷酷无情 | |
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109
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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110
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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111
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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112
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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113
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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114
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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115
ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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116
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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