The young man had still only formless notions of what he was going to do, but it was at least plain to him that Falkner was to have no part in the proceedings5. He drew off his varnished6 boots as a further measure of security, and then, with more hesitation7, removed his cloak and coat, and raised the inside blinds at the two windows. This sitting-room8 of his had rather pleased him formerly9. He could recall having taken quite an affectionate interest in buying and arranging the rugs and pictures and bookcases with which he had supplemented the somewhat gaunt furnishing of his predecessor10. But now, in this misty11 and reluctant light of the London morning, nothing seemed good to him as he looked about.
The pretty things of his own selection said no more to him than did the chattels12 he had taken over from a stranger. There was no spirit of home in them.
He moved noiselessly to the adjoining bedroom, and drew the curtains there as well, and glanced round. Here, too, he had the sense of beholding13 the casual appointments of a hotel chamber14. Nothing made an appeal of intimacy15 to him. He reflected that in a day or two he should not be able to remember how his room looked—even if his memory attempted the fatuous17 task. Duke Street had been engraved18 on his cards for six months, but it had not made the faintest mark on his heart.
With an air of decision, he suddenly began to drag forth19 his clothes from the wardrobe and drawers, and spread them on the bed. In the tiny dressing-room beyond were piled his traveling bags, and these he brought out into the light. Upon consideration, however, the original impulse to take a good many things weakened and dwindled20. To begin with, their secret removal was in no way practicable. Moreover, now that he thought of it, he did not want them. They would be simply encumbrances21. He would take with him only the smallest handbag, with a change of linen22 and a few brushes.
Finally, the conviction that even this must be a nuisance became clear to him, and he desisted from the random23 packing he had begun. Still moving about as silently as possible, he changed his ceremonial tie for one of every-day wear, and put on a suit of sober-colored tweeds, and his easiest brown boots. The transfer of his watch, some loose gold and the roll of notes from one set of pockets to another, completed his preparations in the bedchamber. He tiptoed out to the larger room, and there, upon reflection, wrote a few lines for Falkner’s direction, saying merely that he was called away, and that matters were to go on as usual until he returned or sent further orders. He separated a banknote from the roll to place inside this note, but on second thoughts wrote a check instead, and sealing and directing the envelope, laid it in a conspicuous24 place on the table.
He noticed then, for the first time, that there were some letters from the evening post for him, neatly25 arranged on this table. He opened the nearest, and glanced at its contents: it was a note from his second cousin, Lady Milly Poynes, the fair-haired, fair-faced, fair-brained, fair-everything sister of Lord Lingfield, reminding him that she was depending upon his escort for the Private View of the Academy, and that the time for getting tickets was running very short. He laughed aloud at the conceit26 of the Royal Academy rising in his path as an obstacle at such a moment—and without more ado thrust this with the unopened letters into his pocket. Then, when he had made sure once more that he had his check-book, nothing remained to be done. He went softly forth, without so much as a thought of taking a farewell glance behind him, found a soft dark hat in the hallway and then closed the outer door with great care upon the whole Duke Street episode of his life.
“You are not to see me here again in a hurry,” he confided27 aloud to the banisters and steps, when he had descended29 to the first floor. Then he laughed to himself, and tripped gaily30 down the remaining flight.
There was no hesitation now in his mood. He walked briskly back through the square, and then down Waterloo Place, till he came to the Guards’ Memorial. He moved round this to the front, and looked up at one of the three bronze Guardsmen with the confident air of familiarity. He knew this immutable31, somber32 face under every shifting aspect of light and shadow; he had stared at the mantling33 greatcoat and the huge bearskin of this hero of his a hundred times. The very first day of his arrival in London he had made the acquaintance of this statue, and had started, dazed and fascinated, at the strange resemblance it suggested. Thus his boy-father must have looked, with the beard and the heavy dress of the Russian winter. The metal figure came to mean to him more than all London beside. In the sad, strong, silent countenance34 which gazed down upon him he read forever the tragedy that gripped his heartstrings. Forever Honor, standing35 aloft, held the laurel wreath poised36 high above the warrior’s head—immovable in the air, never to descend28 to touch its mark. Christian had seen this wreath always through moist eyes.
This morning, for a wonder, no tearful impulse came to him as he looked upward. The impassive face was as gravely fine as ever, but its customary effect of pathos37 was lacking. There even seemed in its sightless eyes a latent perception of Christian’s altered mood. He lifted his hat soberly and saluted38 the statue.
Toward the Strand39 now he made his way, walking blithely40, and humming to himself. He could not forbear to smile at a policeman he passed in front of St. Martin’s. Two elderly and much bewrapped cabmen stood stamping their feet beside a shelter, and they pointed41 toward their ridiculous old horses and battered42 growlers as he came along, with an air that moved him to glee. He gave them a shilling to divide, and went on, conscious of a novel delight in himself and in the world at large.
The big clock showed it to be half-past five. There was no blue in the sky, but the mist of daybreak was abating43, and the air was milder. Not a living creature was visible along the naked length of the Strand. At the end, the beautiful spire44 of St. Mary’s rose from the dim grays about its base, exquisite45 in tints46 and contour as an Alpine47 summit in the moment before sunrise.
A turning to the left opened to Christian, unexpectedly, a scene full of motion and color. He had not thought himself so near Covent Garden, but clearly this must be it. He walked up toward the busy scene of high-laden vans, big cart-horses and swarming48 porters, wondering why no sign of all this activity was manifest in the sleeping Strand below, barely a stone’s throw distant. He saw the glowing banks of flowers within, as he approached, and made toward them, sighing already with pleasure at the promise they held out to him.
He might have read in the papers that it was a backward and a grudging49 April, this year, in the matter of flowers. But to Christian, no memory of the exuberant50 South suggested any rivalry51 with this wonderful show of northern blossoms. Tulips and daffodils, amaryllis and azaleas, rhododendrons, carnations52, roses—he seemed to have imagined to himself nothing like this before. He spent over an hour among them, in the end making numerous purchases. At each stall he gave an address—always the same—and exacted the pledge of delivery at eight o’clock.
At last he could in reason buy nothing more, and he went out to look about him. He found the place where the market-men take drinks at all hours, and food and coffee when nature’s sternest demands can be positively53 no longer disregarded—but it did not invite his appetite. Some further time he spent in gazing wondering at the vast walls of vegetables and fruit being tirelessly built up and pulled down again, pondering meanwhile the question whether he should breakfast before eight o’clock, or at some indefinitely later hour. He partially54 solved the problem at length by buying a small box of Algerian peaches, and eating them where he stood. Then some exceptionally fine bananas tempted16 him further, and he finished with a delicate little melon from Sicily.
How it carried him back to the days of his youth—this early morning fragrance55 of the fresh fruit! It was as if he were at Cannes again—only buoyant now, and happy, and oh, so free! And in his pocket he could feel whenever he liked the soft, munificent56 crackle of over four thousand francs! The sapphire57 Mediterranean58 had surely never been so lovely to his gaze as was now the dingy59 Strand below.
The laggard60 hour came round at last. He descended to Arundel Street, and discovered the house he wanted, and found just within the entrance two or three of the flower-laden porters awaiting his arrival, For the rest, the building seemed profoundly unoccupied. He led the way up to the third floor, and had the plants set down beside the locked door which bore the sign “Miss Bailey.” Other similarly burdened porters made their appearance in turn, till the narrow hallway looked like a floral annex61 to the Garden itself.
He waited alone with his treasures for what seemed to him a very long time, then descended and stood at the street door till he was tired, then climbed the stairs again. The extraordinary quiet of the big building, filled with business offices as it was, puzzled him. He had no experience of early-morning London to warn him that English habits differed from those of the continent. It occurred to him that perhaps it was a holiday—conceivably one of those extraordinary interludes called Bank Holidays—and he essayed a perplexing computation in the calendar in the effort to settle this point.
Finally there began the sounds of steps, and the opening and closing of doors, below him. A tow-headed boy in buttons came up to his landing, stared in vacuous62 amazement63 at him and the flowers and passed on to the next floor. Noises of occupancy rose from the well of the staircase to bear him countenance, and suddenly a lift glided64 up past him in this well. He had not noticed the ropes or the iron caging before. He heard the slamming of the lift doors above, and the dark carriage followed on its smooth descent. Christian reproached himself for not having rung the bell and questioned the lift-man. He considered the feasibility of doing it now, but was deterred65 by the fear that the man would resent it. Then the lift came up again—and was stopping at his floor. There was a sharp note of girlish laughter on the instant of the halt, answered by a male guffaw66.
A slight, erect67, active young woman emerged from the lift, her face alive with mirth of some unknown character. Behind her, in the obscurity, Christian saw for an instant the vanishing countenance of the liftman, grinning widely. This hilarity68, somehow, struck in him an unsympathetic chord.
The young woman, still laughing, spread an uncomprehending glance over Christian and his flowers. She moved past him, key in hand, toward the door which he had been guarding, with a puzzled eye upon him meanwhile. With the key in the lock she turned and decided69 to speak.
“What might all this be—the Temple Flower Show or the Crystal Palace?” she asked, with banter70 in her tone.
“These are for Miss Bailey,” said Christian, quite humbly71.
“Must be some mistake,” said the girl decisively. “Did she order them herself? Were you there at the time? Did you see her? Where do they come from?”
Christian advanced a little into the light. “She has not ordered them,” he said, in his calmest voice. “I have not seen her for a long time. But I have brought them for her, and I think you may take it from me that they are hers.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she replied, lightly but with grace. “I didn’t understand. Things are forever being brought here that belong somewhere else. Men are so stupid in finding their way about! Well—I suppose we must get them inside. That is your idea, isn’t it?”
She spoke72 very rapidly, and with a kind of metallic73 snap in her tones. Christian answered her questions by a suave74 assenting75 gesture. “Miss Bailey is not likely to turn up much before half-past nine,” she went on, as if he had made the inquiry76. “She lives so far out, and just now we’re not very busy. There’s nothing doing in new plays at this time of the year, and the lady novelists are all getting their own typewriters. If you’ll lend a hand, we’ll carry the things in.” Between them they bore in the various pots, and the big bouquets77 loosely wrapped in blue paper. The girl led the way through a large working-room to a smaller apartment, fitted as an office but containing also a sofa and a tall gas cooking-stove—and here on desk and center-table, chairs and windowsill, they placed the flowers. Christian watched her as she deftly78 removed their paper wrappings. She had a comely79, small face of aspect at once alert and masterful. The skin was peculiarly fair, with a tinge80 of rose in the cheeks so delicately modulated81 that he found it in rivalry with the “Mrs. Pauls” she was unpacking82. Her light hair was drawn83 plainly down over the temples in a fashion which he felt was distinguished84, but said to himself he did not like. Her shrewd eyes took calm cognizance of him from time to time.
“They are very beautiful indeed,” she remarked with judicial85 approval, upon the completion of her task. Then, as upon an afterthought, she moved rapidly about, peering under the branches of the growing plants, and separating the cut flowers lightly with her hands. “There is no card anywhere, is there? I suppose you will want to leave a message? Here are pen and ink—if you wish to write anything.”
“Thank you,” Christian began, smilingly but with obvious hesitation. He looked at his watch. “If you don’t mind—if you’re quite sure I shan’t be in the way—I think I should like to wait till Miss Bailey comes.”
“Oh, you won’t be in the way,” the girl replied. She regarded him meditatively87, with narrowed eyes. “I shouldn’t dust this room in any event—since the flowers are here; but you mustn’t come out into the big room—unless you want to get choked with blacks. Would you like a morning paper? I can send a boy out for one.”
“Thank you—you are very good—no,” Christian answered. “There are some books here—I shall amuse myself.”
The girl turned to leave him, and then on second thought moved over to the window and lifted the sash. “There’ll be no objection to your smoking if you like,” she informed him. Then she went out, closing the door behind her.
Christian walked to the window in turn, and looked down over the flowers to the narrow street below. It was full of young men in silk hats, toiling88 up the granite89 ascent90 like black ants. He reflected that they must be clerks and shopmen, going to their daily work from the Temple station or the Embankment. The suggestion of monotonous91 bondage92 which their swarming progress toward the wage-earning center gave forth, interested him. He yawned pleasurably at the thought of his own superb emancipation93 from duties and tasks of all descriptions.
He strolled over to the bookcase above the desk, and glanced at the volumes revealed through its glass doors. They seemed very serious books, indeed. “Economics of Socialism,” “Capitalist Production,” “The Ethics94 of Socialism,” “Towards Democracy”—so the titles ran that first met his eye. There were other groups—mainly of history and the essayists—but everything was substantial. His glance sought in vain any lightsome gleam of poetry or fiction. The legend on a thin red book, “Civilization: Its Cause and Cure,” whimsically caught his attention. He put his hand to the key in the bookcase door to get out the volume; then, hesitating, yawned, and looked over the shelves once more. There was nothing else—and really he desired to read nothing.
He would half recline in comfort upon the sofa instead, until his friend came. As a pleasing adjunct to this plan, he drew the table up close, and found room upon it, by crowding them together, for most of the flowers that had been bestowed95 elsewhere. He seated himself at his ease, with his head resting against the wall, and surveyed the plants and blossoms in affectionate admiration96. It was delicious to think how na?ve her surprise would be—how great her pleasure! Truly, since his discovery of his birthright, remarkable97 and varied98 as had been his experiences, he had done nothing else which afforded him a tithe99 of the satisfaction he felt now glowing in all his veins100. Here, at last, by some curious and devious101 chance, he had stumbled upon the thing that was genuinely worth doing.
He could hear the cheerful girl in the next room, whistling gently to herself as she moved the furniture about. There came presently the sound of other female voices, and then a sustained, vibrant102 rattle103, quaintly104 accentuated105 like the ticking of a telegraph key, which he grew accustomed to, and even found pleasant to the ear.
He put his feet up on the edge of the sofa—and nestled downward till his head was upon it as well. A delicate yet pervasive107 fragrance from the table close beside him aroused his languid curiosity. Was it the perfume of carnations or of roses?
He closed his eyes the better to decide.
In the outer room, Miss Connie Staples108 permitted herself numerous and varied speculations109 as to the identity and purposes of the young man with the flowers, the while she dusted the typewriters, distributed the copy for the morning’s start and set the place in order. She had her sleeves rolled up, and had wound a big handkerchief about her hair; beneath this turban her forehead scored itself in lines of perplexed110 wonderment as to this curious early caller—but when two other girls arrived, she suffered them to put aside their things and begin work without so much as hinting at what had happened. A third girl, coming a little later, brought in a stray blossom which she had picked up in the corridor outside. She mentioned the fact, and even laid stress upon it, but got no syllable111 of explanation.
This was all simple enough, but at half-past nine the arrival of still another of the sex put Miss Connie’s resources to an unexpected test.
A handsome, youngish woman, very well dressed indeed, appeared suddenly upon the threshold of the workroom, knocking upon the door and pushing it wide open at the same instant. She looked curiously112 about, and then point-blank into the face of the girl who came toward her. It was a glance of independent and impersonal113 criticism which the two exchanged, covering with instantaneous swiftness an infinitude of details as to dress, coiffure, complexion114, figure, temperament115 and origin. Connie wondered if the new-comer was really quite a lady, long before she formulated116 an inquiring thought about her errand. Even as she finally looked this question of business, she decided that it was an actress with a play for the provinces, and asked herself if she did not seem to recognize the face. The visitor, for her part, saw that Connie’s teeth were too uneven117 to be false, and that her waist was overlong, and that her hair was not thick enough to be worn flat over the temples, much less to justify118 so confident a manner. In all, something less than a second of time had elapsed.
“I want to see Miss Bailey—Miss Frank Bailey,” explained the stranger, graciously.
Connie conveyed to her, with courteous119 brevity, the fact that Miss Bailey had not yet arrived. “Is it something that I can do?” she added.
The other shook her head, and showed an affable thread of white between her freshened lips. “No, I will wait for her,” she answered, and threw a keen glance about the place. “That’s her private room, isn’t it?” she asked, nodding at the closed door to the right. “I will wait in there,” she decided, in the same breath, and began moving toward it.
Connie alertly headed her off. “If you will kindly121 take a seat here—” she interposed, standing in front of her visitor.
“It’s too noisy out here,” remarked the other; “those horrid122 machines would give me a headache. That is her private room, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately,” Connie began, lowering her voice, “the room belongs to another office. Or rather, I should say, it is locked. Miss Bailey will be here—with the key—very shortly now.”
“Oh, it’s all right—I’m her sister,” explained the other, in no wise resenting the ineffectual fabrications. She pushed forward past the reluctant girl with a resolute123 step, and put her hand on the knob of the tabooed door. “Make your mind quite easy, my dear,” she remarked over her shoulder, sinking her voice in turn in deference124 to the situation; “you’ve done all that could be expected of you—and I’ll tell her so.”
Then, with a momentary125 gleam of good nature on her pretty face, which the short transparent126 veil she wore to her chin seemed to accentuate106 rather than mask, she opened the door, threw up her head with a swift, puzzled glance at what she saw, and then tiptoed gracefully127 into the room, closing the door with painstaking noiselessness behind her.
Miss Frances Bailey entered her office not many minutes later, her cheeks aglow128 with the morning air as the wheelwoman meets it. She nodded cheerfully to Connie, and beyond her to the girls at the machines, as her hand sought for a hat-pin at the back of her head.
“Any word from the Lyceum?” she asked. “And what does that Zambesi-travel manuscript make?”
Connie ignored industrial topics. “There are people waiting in there to see you,” she announced, in low, significant tones.
The mistress was impressed by the suggestion of mystery. “People? What people?” she asked, knitting her brows.
“One of them says she’s your sister. And the other is a young gentleman—he came first—and he brought—”
“My sister?” interrupted Miss Bailey. “Cora! Something dreadful must have happened—for she never got out so early as this before in her life. Is she in mourning? Did she seem upset?”
“Not a bit of it!” said Connie, reassuringly129. She added, following the other toward the private office: “I tried my best to keep her out here.”
“Why should you?” asked Frances, with wide-open eyes.
“Oh, well—you’ll see,” replied the girl, evasively. “I told you there was some one else in there.”
Frances opened the door—and Connie noted130 that she too lifted her head and stared a little, and then cautiously closed the door behind her. She pondered this as she returned to her machine, and she curled her thin lip when she took up the copies of the first act of an amateur’s romantic play, to underscore the business directions with red ink, and sew on brown paper covers. Intuition told her that a much better drama was afoot, here under her very nose.
Inside her office, Miss Bailey surrendered herself to frank astonishment131 at what she beheld132.
Bestowed in obvious discomfort133 upon her sofa, behind an extraordinary bank of potted plants and bright, costly134 greenhouse flowers, was a young man fast asleep. Her eye took in as well her sister, who sat near the head of the sofa, but she could wait. The interest centered in this sleeping stranger, who made himself so much at home in the shelter of his remarkable floral barricade135. She moved round the better to scrutinize136 his face, which was tilted137 up as if proudly held even in slumber138. Upon examination she recognized the countenance; and in a swift moment of concentration tried to think what his presence might signify. Then she turned to her sister, and lifted her calm brows in mute inquiry.
“Oh, my dear—what splendid business!” whispered Cora, her glance beaming upward from the sofa to the standing figure. “And mind, Frank, I’m in it! I’m in it up to my neck! I sent him to you, dear.”
The girl looked down at them both, and deliberated before she spoke. “If you brought him here,” she said, “I think you’d better take him away again. I can let you out by this other door. Let us have no more publicity139 than necessary.”
“But you don’t in the least understand!” protested Cora, with her finger raised in an appeal for quiet tones.
“No, I don’t understand. I don’t want to understand,” replied Frances coldly. “There’s one thing you don’t understand either, Cora: This is my typewriting office; it isn’t a greenroom at all.”
“Then it well might be,” retorted the other, with a latent grin. “Anything greener than its owner I never saw. Now listen—don’t be a silly cuckoo! I met the youngster last night—and I worked him up till he was mad to learn where you were to be found. I told him—and then I went home, and I couldn’t sleep for thinkin’ of you, dear—and so I turned out at some extraordinary hour this mornin’—it is mornin’ by this time, isn’t it?—and I came here, just to tell you that he was askin’ after you—and I come in here—and lo! here’s the bird on his little nest!—and see the flowers he’s brought from Covent Garden for you!—and so I sit here like Patience on a monument, afraid to wink140 an eyelash, so’s not to wake him till you come. That’s what I’ve done for you, dear—and presently, if you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what you’ll do for me.”
Frances put a knee upon the chair before her, and rested with her hands upon its back. She sighed a little, and bit her lips. A troubled look came into her gray eyes.
“You might as well say all you have to say,” she said, slowly. “I don’t in the least see what you’re up to—but then I never did.”
“No, dear, you never did,” responded Cora, smiling as if in pleased retrospect141. “But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t be a good sister to you. If it’s one’s nature to be a good sister, why, then one will be—and there you are, don’t you see? I take no credit to myself for it.”
“Go on,” said the other. The two women spoke in hushed whispers, and with each sentence stole glances of precaution toward the sleeper142.
“Well, Frank, I look to you not to forget what I’ve done. I spent two or three very hard hours last night talkin’ him round, and singin’ your praises to him—and I put Covent Garden into his head, too—-and here he is! And I kept Eddy143 and Gus off his back, too—they were frightfully keen to get at him—but I said no, and I held ’em to heel. It was all for you, dear. They might have queered the whole pitch, if I’d given ’em their heads. But now about myself. I’m tired, dead tired, of bein’ poor. Of course we get a little something from Lord Julius. But Eddy—you know what Eddy is! No sooner does he pick himself up from Epsom than Ascot gives him a fair knockout, and if he lives through the Sandown Eclipse there’s Goodwood waitin’ for him with a facer. I can’t understand it; other men seem to win sometimes—you’d think the unluckiest duffer would get a look-in once in a while—but no, he just gets hammered one meeting after another. And I’m tired of it, Frank! If I could only go back to work! But if I get an engagement, then Eddy will go playin’ the goat—he’s jealous of everybody about the place from the bandmaster down to the carpenter’s boy—and that makes me unpopular—and there we are, don’t you see! I’m worn out with it. But if I could have eight hundred a year, or even six hundred or five at a pinch—God knows, my wants are simple enough!—and have it paid to me personally, do you see—why, then, life would be worth livin’. Now, what do you say?”
Frances looked moodily144 down at her distinguished sister, her lips twisted in stormy amusement. “Why not say a thousand and be done with it?” she demanded between set teeth, after an ominous145 pause. “One would be as intelligent as the other. And oughtn’t I to set your Eddy up with a racing146 stud while I’m about it? It’s true that I have about twenty pounds a year for my own personal use, and Tom has a standing grievance147 that I don’t give even that to him—but don’t let that interfere148 with your plans. Whatever you feel that you would like, just give it a name. Couldn’t I lease one of the new Kaffir mansions149 in Park Lane for you? Or would you prefer something in Grosvenor Square?”
Cora gazed up with such intentness at her unnatural150 sister that a bright little tear came to shine at the corner of each eye. She put up her veil then, and breathed a cautious sigh. “I didn’t expect this of you, dear,” she said, submissively. “Of course it’s the old story—La Cigale, and ‘go-to-the ant-thou-sluggard’ and all that. I don’t see myself why a typewriting machine should make one so fearfully stony-hearted; you get callouses151 on your fingers, I know, but you needn’t get ’em on your sisterly affections, one would think. But however”—she wiped her eyes, drew down her veil and allowed a truculent152 note to sound in her voice—“however, if you won’t play, why then neither will I. I’ve been at pains to put this youngster in your way, but it won’t be much trouble to shunt him out again. You mustn’t think you can walk on me indefinitely, Frank. I’m the best-natured woman in the world, but even I draw the line somewhere.”
“Draw it now then,” said the other, with stern promptitude. “Go away, and take your friend with you and let me get to my work. I don’t know what business either of you had coming here, at all.” As she spoke, she moved to the outer private door, and turned the key in the lock. “You can send for the flowers,” she added, “or I will have them taken over to Charing153 Cross Hospital—whichever you like.”
Cora rose, her veiled face luminous154 with a sudden inspiration. “You can’t quarrel with me, dear, no matter how hard you try.” She spoke in low, cooing tones—a triumph of sympathetic voice production. “You’re hard as nails, but I know you’re straight. I will trust my interests absolutely in your hands. I leave it to you to do the fair thing by me.”
“The fair thing?” echoed Frances, in dubious155 perplexity. She puzzled over the words and their elusive156 implication. “Your interests?” she repeated—and saw Cora move round her to the unlocked door, and open it—and still sought to comprehend what it was all about. Only when her sister, smiling cordially once more, bent157 forward without warning and pressed her veiled lips against her chin, and with a gentle “Goodbye, dear!” stepped into the shadows without, did she recall the other features of the situation.
“Here!” she called, with nervous eagerness, yet keeping her voice down, “you’re not to run off like this. Take your man with you.”
“Softly, dear!” Cora enjoined158 her, from the dusk of the hallway. “Your young women wouldn’t understand. No—I caught him for you, and I leave him in your hands. I’m not in the least afraid to trust it all to you. Bye-bye, dear.”
Frances went out and glared down the staircase, with angry expostulation on her tongue’s end. But there was nobody to talk to. She could hear only the brisk rustle159 of Cora’s skirts on the stone steps, a floor below—and even that died away beneath the clatter160 of the machines inside.
Returning over the threshold, she paused, and looked impatiently at the flowers, and at the impassive, slumbering161 face beyond them. After a little, the lines of vexation began to melt from her brow. In a musing162 way, she put a hand behind her, and as if unconsciously closed and locked the hall door again. Then she moved to the table, picked up some of the loose blossoms and breathed in their fragrance, still keeping her thoughtful gaze upon the young man. She found the face much older and stronger than she remembered it—and in a spirit of fairness she said to herself that it seemed no whit120 less innocent. But then perhaps all sleeping faces looked innocent; she could recall that Cora’s certainly did. Holding the carnations to her lips and nostrils163, she examined in meditative86 detail the countenance before her—delicately modeled, dark, nervously164 high-spirited even in repose165. Associations came back as she gazed—the tender eagerness of the lad, the wistful charm with which his fancy had invested England, the frank sweetness of the temperament he had disclosed to her. He had been like a flower himself on that mellow166 autumn day—as fresh and as goodly to the eye as these roses on the table. But a winter had intervened since then—and what gross disillusionments, what roughening and hardening and corroding167 experiences had he not encountered! You could not tell anything by a face in sleep; again she assured herself of that.
Why, when one came to think of it, it was enough that Cora had brought him—or sent him, it mattered not which. Whence had she dispatched him?—from some theatrical168 dance or late supper. It was true that he was not in evening dress—and the thought gave her pause for a moment. But he had been at some place where those wretched cousins of his were present—for Cora had spoken of keeping both Eddy and Gus “off his back”—whatever that might mean. And it was Cora herself who had told him to go to Covent Garden and buy these flowers!
Frances, revolving169 these unpleasant reflections, discovered all at once that the young man, without betraying by any other motion his awakening170, had opened his eyes and was looking placidly171 across the flowers into her face.
She caught a quick breath, and frowned slightly at him.
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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4
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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5
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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6
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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7
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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8
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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9
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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10
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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11
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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12
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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13
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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14
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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15
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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16
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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17
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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18
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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19
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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20
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
encumbrances
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| n.负担( encumbrance的名词复数 )；累赘；妨碍；阻碍 | |
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22
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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23
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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24
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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25
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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26
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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27
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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28
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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29
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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30
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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31
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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32
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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33
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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34
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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35
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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36
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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37
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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38
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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39
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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40
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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41
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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42
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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43
abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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44
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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45
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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46
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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47
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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48
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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49
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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50
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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51
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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52
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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53
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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54
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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55
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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56
munificent
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| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
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57
sapphire
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|
| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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58
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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59
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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60
laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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61
annex
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| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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62
vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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63
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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64
glided
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|
| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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65
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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67
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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68
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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69
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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70
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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71
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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72
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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73
metallic
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|
| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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74
suave
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|
| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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75
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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76
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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77
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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78
deftly
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|
| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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79
comely
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|
| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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80
tinge
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|
| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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81
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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82
unpacking
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|
| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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83
drawn
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|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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84
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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85
judicial
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|
| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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86
meditative
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|
| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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87
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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88
toiling
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|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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89
granite
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|
| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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90
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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91
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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92
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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93
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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94
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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95
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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97
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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98
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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99
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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100
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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101
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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102
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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103
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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104
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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105
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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106
accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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107
pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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108
staples
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| n.（某国的）主要产品( staple的名词复数 )；钉书钉；U 形钉；主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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110
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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111
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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112
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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113
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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114
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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115
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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116
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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117
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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118
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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119
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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120
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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121
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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122
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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123
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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124
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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125
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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126
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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127
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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128
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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129
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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130
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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131
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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132
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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133
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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134
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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135
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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136
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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137
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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138
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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139
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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140
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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141
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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142
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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143
eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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144
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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145
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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146
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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147
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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148
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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149
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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150
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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151
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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152
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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153
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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154
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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155
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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156
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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157
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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158
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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160
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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161
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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162
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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163
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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164
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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165
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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166
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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167
corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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168
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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169
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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170
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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171
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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