The Haunted Bookshop was a delightful1 place, especially of an evening, when its drowsy3 alcoves4 were kindled6 with the brightness of lamps shining on the rows of volumes. Many a passer-by would stumble down the steps from the street in sheer curiosity; others, familiar visitors, dropped in with the same comfortable emotion that a man feels on entering his club. Roger's custom was to sit at his desk in the rear, puffing7 his pipe and reading; though if any customer started a conversation, the little man was quick and eager to carry it on. The lion of talk lay only sleeping in him; it was not hard to goad8 it up.
It may be remarked that all bookshops that are open in the evening are busy in the after-supper hours. Is it that the true book-lovers are nocturnal gentry9, only venturing forth10 when darkness and silence and the gleam of hooded11 lights irresistibly12 suggest reading? Certainly night-time has a mystic affinity13 for literature, and it is strange that the Esquimaux have created no great books. Surely, for most of us, an arctic night would be insupportable without O. Henry and Stevenson. Or, as Roger Mifflin remarked during a passing enthusiasm for Ambrose Bierce, the true noctes ambrosianae are the noctes ambrose bierceianae.
But Roger was prompt in closing Parnassus at ten o'clock. At that hour he and Bock (the mustard-coloured terrier, named for Boccaccio) would make the round of the shop, see that everything was shipshape, empty the ash trays provided for customers, lock the front door, and turn off the lights. Then they would retire to the den14, where Mrs. Mifflin was generally knitting or reading. She would brew15 a pot of cocoa and they would read or talk for half an hour or so before bed. Sometimes Roger would take a stroll along Gissing Street before turning in. All day spent with books has a rather exhausting effect on the mind, and he used to enjoy the fresh air sweeping16 up the dark Brooklyn streets, meditating18 some thought that had sprung from his reading, while Bock sniffed19 and padded along in the manner of an elderly dog at night.
While Mrs. Mifflin was away, however, Roger's routine was somewhat different. After closing the shop he would return to his desk and with a furtive20, shamefaced air take out from a bottom drawer an untidy folder21 of notes and manuscript. This was the skeleton in his closet, his secret sin. It was the scaffolding of his book, which he had been compiling for at least ten years, and to which he had tentatively assigned such different titles as "Notes on Literature," "The Muse22 on Crutches," "Books and I," and "What a Young Bookseller Ought to Know." It had begun long ago, in the days of his odyssey23 as a rural book huckster, under the title of "Literature Among the Farmers," but it had branched out until it began to appear that (in bulk at least) Ridpath would have to look to his linoleum24 laurels25. The manuscript in its present state had neither beginning nor end, but it was growing strenuously26 in the middle, and hundreds of pages were covered with Roger's minute script. The chapter on "Ars Bibliopolae," or the art of bookselling, would be, he hoped, a classic among generations of book vendors27 still unborn. Seated at his disorderly desk, caressed28 by a counterpane of drifting tobacco haze29, he would pore over the manuscript, crossing out, interpolating, re-arguing, and then referring to volumes on his shelves. Bock would snore under the chair, and soon Roger's brain would begin to waver. In the end he would fall asleep over his papers, wake with a cramp30 about two o'clock, and creak irritably33 to a lonely bed.
All this we mention only to explain how it was that Roger was dozing34 at his desk about midnight, the evening after the call paid by Aubrey Gilbert. He was awakened35 by a draught36 of chill air passing like a mountain brook17 over his bald pate37. Stiffly he sat up and looked about. The shop was in darkness save for the bright electric over his head. Bock, of more regular habit than his master, had gone back to his couch in the kitchen, made of a packing case that had once coffined38 a set of the Encyclopaedia39 Britannica.
"That's funny," said Roger to himself. "Surely I locked the door?" He walked to the front of the shop, switching on the cluster of lights that hung from the ceiling. The door was ajar, but everything else seemed as usual. Bock, hearing his footsteps, came trotting40 out from the kitchen, his claws rattling41 on the bare wooden floor. He looked up with the patient inquiry42 of a dog accustomed to the eccentricities43 of his patron.
"I guess I'm getting absent-minded," said Roger. "I must have left the door open." He closed and locked it. Then he noticed that the terrier was sniffing44 in the History alcove5, which was at the front of the shop on the left-hand side.
"What is it, old man?" said Roger. "Want something to read in bed?" He turned on the light in that alcove. Everything appeared normal. Then he noticed a book that projected an inch or so beyond the even line of bindings. It was a fad45 of Roger's to keep all his books in a flat row on the shelves, and almost every evening at closing time he used to run his palm along the backs of the volumes to level any irregularities left by careless browsers46. He put out a hand to push the book into place. Then he stopped.
"Queer again," he thought. "Carlyle's Oliver Cromwell! I looked for that book last night and couldn't find it. When that professor fellow was here. Maybe I'm tired and can't see straight. I'll go to bed."
The next day was a date of some moment. Not only was it Thanksgiving Day, with the November meeting of the Corn Cob Club scheduled for that evening, but Mrs. Mifflin had promised to get home from Boston in time to bake a chocolate cake for the booksellers. It was said that some of the members of the club were faithful in attendance more by reason of Mrs. Mifflin's chocolate cake, and the cask of cider that her brother Andrew McGill sent down from the Sabine Farm every autumn, than on account of the bookish conversation.
Roger spent the morning in doing a little housecleaning, in preparation for his wife's return. He was a trifle abashed47 to find how many mingled48 crumbs49 and tobacco cinders50 had accumulated on the dining-room rug. He cooked himself a modest lunch of lamb chops and baked potatoes, and was pleased by an epigram concerning food that came into his mind. "It's not the food you dream about that matters," he said to himself; "it's the vittles that walk right in and become a member of the family." He felt that this needed a little polishing and rephrasing, but that there was a germ of wit in it. He had a habit of encountering ideas at his solitary51 meals.
After this, he was busy at the sink scrubbing the dishes, when he was surprised by feeling two very competent arms surround him, and a pink gingham apron52 was thrown over his head. "Mifflin," said his wife, "how many times have I told you to put on an apron when you wash up!"
They greeted each other with the hearty53, affectionate simplicity54 of those congenially wedded55 in middle age. Helen Mifflin was a buxom56, healthy creature, rich in good sense and good humour, well nourished both in mind and body. She kissed Roger's bald head, tied the apron around his shrimpish person, and sat down on a kitchen chair to watch him finish wiping the china. Her cheeks were cool and ruddy from the keen air, her face lit with the tranquil57 satisfaction of those who have sojourned in the comfortable city of Boston.
"Well, my dear," said Roger, "this makes it a real Thanksgiving. You look as plump and full of matter as The Home Book of Verse."
"I've had a stunning58 time," she said, patting Bock who stood at her knee, imbibing59 the familiar and mysterious fragrance60 by which dogs identify their human friends. "I haven't even heard of a book for three weeks. I did stop in at the Old Angle Book Shop yesterday, just to say hullo to Joe Jillings. He says all booksellers are crazy, but that you are the craziest of the lot. He wants to know if you're bankrupt yet."
Roger's slate-blue eyes twinkled. He hung up a cup in the china closet and lit his pipe before replying.
"What did you say?"
"I said that our shop was haunted, and mustn't be supposed to come under the usual conditions of the trade."
"'Haunted by the nuts!'"
"Well," said Roger, "when literature goes bankrupt I'm willing to go with it. Not till then. But by the way, we're going to be haunted by a beauteous damsel pretty soon. You remember my telling you that Mr. Chapman wants to send his daughter to work in the shop? Well, here's a letter I had from him this morning."
DEAR MR. MIFFLIN,
I am so delighted that you and Mrs. Mifflin are willing to try the experiment of taking my daughter as an apprentice63. Titania is really a very charming girl, and if only we can get some of the "finishing school" nonsense out of her head she will make a fine woman. She has had (it was my fault, not hers) the disadvantage of being brought up, or rather brought down, by having every possible want and whim64 gratified. Out of kindness for herself and her future husband, if she should have one, I want her to learn a little about earning a living. She is nearly nineteen, and I told her if she would try the bookshop job for a while I would take her to Europe for a year afterward65.
As I explained to you, I want her to think she is really earning her way. Of course I don't want the routine to be too hard for her, but I do want her to get some idea of what it means to face life on one's own. If you will pay her ten dollars a week as a beginner, and deduct66 her board from that, I will pay you twenty dollars a week, privately67, for your responsibility in caring for her and keeping your and Mrs. Mifflin's friendly eyes on her. I'm coming round to the Corn Cob meeting to-morrow night, and we can make the final arrangements.
Luckily, she is very fond of books, and I really think she is looking forward to the adventure with much anticipation68. I overheard her saying to one of her friends yesterday that she was going to do some "literary work" this winter. That's the kind of nonsense I want her to outgrow69. When I hear her say that she's got a job in a bookstore, I'll know she's cured.
Cordially yours,
GEORGE CHAPMAN.
"Well?" said Roger, as Mrs. Mifflin made no comment. "Don't you think it will be rather interesting to get a naive70 young girl's reactions toward the problems of our tranquil existence?"
"Roger, you blessed innocent!" cried his wife. "Life will no longer be tranquil with a girl of nineteen round the place. You may fool yourself, but you can't fool me. A girl of nineteen doesn't REACT toward things. She explodes. Things don't 'react' anywhere but in Boston and in chemical laboratories. I suppose you know you're taking a human bombshell into the arsenal71?"
Roger looked dubious72. "I remember something in Weir73 of Hermiston about a girl being 'an explosive engine,'" he said. "But I don't see that she can do any very great harm round here. We're both pretty well proof against shell shock. The worst that could happen would be if she got hold of my private copy of Fireside Conversation in the Age of Queen Elizabeth. Remind me to lock it up somewhere, will you?"
This secret masterpiece by Mark Twain was one of the bookseller's treasures. Not even Helen had ever been permitted to read it; and she had shrewdly judged that it was not in her line, for though she knew perfectly74 well where he kept it (together with his life insurance policy, some Liberty Bonds, an autograph letter from Charles Spencer Chaplin, and a snapshot of herself taken on their honeymoon) she had never made any attempt to examine it.
"Well," said Helen; "Titania or no Titania, if the Corn Cobs want their chocolate cake to-night, I must get busy. Take my suitcase upstairs like a good fellow."
A gathering75 of booksellers is a pleasant sanhedrim to attend. The members of this ancient craft bear mannerisms and earmarks just as definitely recognizable as those of the cloak and suit business or any other trade. They are likely to be a little—shall we say—worn at the bindings, as becomes men who have forsaken76 worldly profit to pursue a noble calling ill rewarded in cash. They are possibly a trifle embittered77, which is an excellent demeanour for mankind in the face of inscrutable heaven. Long experience with publishers' salesmen makes them suspicious of books praised between the courses of a heavy meal.
When a publisher's salesman takes you out to dinner, it is not surprising if the conversation turns toward literature about the time the last of the peas are being harried78 about the plate. But, as Jerry Gladfist says (he runs a shop up on Thirty-Eighth Street) the publishers' salesmen supply a long-felt want, for they do now and then buy one a dinner the like of which no bookseller would otherwise be likely to commit.
"Well, gentlemen," said Roger as his guests assembled in his little cabinet, "it's a cold evening. Pull up toward the fire. Make free with the cider. The cake's on the table. My wife came back from Boston specially2 to make it."
"Here's Mrs. Mifflin's health!" said Mr. Chapman, a quiet little man who had a habit of listening to what he heard. "I hope she doesn't mind keeping the shop while we celebrate?"
"Not a bit," said Roger. "She enjoys it."
"I see Tarzan of the Apes is running at the Gissing Street movie palace," said Gladfist. "Great stuff. Have you seen it?"
"Not while I can still read The Jungle Book," said Roger.
"You make me tired with that talk about literature," cried Jerry. "A book's a book, even if Harold Bell Wright wrote it."
"A book's a book if you enjoy reading it," amended79 Meredith, from a big Fifth Avenue bookstore. "Lots of people enjoy Harold Bell Wright just as lots of people enjoy tripe80. Either of them would kill me. But let's be tolerant."
"Your argument is a whole succession of non sequiturs," said Jerry, stimulated81 by the cider to unusual brilliance82.
"What I mean is this," said Jerry. "We aren't literary critics. It's none of our business to say what's good and what isn't. Our job is simply to supply the public with the books it wants when it wants them. How it comes to want the books it does is no concern of ours."
"You're the guy that calls bookselling the worst business in the world," said Roger warmly, "and you're the kind of guy that makes it so. I suppose you would say that it is no concern of the bookseller to try to increase the public appetite for books?"
"Appetite is too strong a word," said Jerry. "As far as books are concerned the public is barely able to sit up and take a little liquid nourishment85. Solid foods don't interest it. If you try to cram31 roast beef down the gullet of an invalid86 you'll kill him. Let the public alone, and thank God when it comes round to amputate any of its hard-earned cash."
"Well, take it on the lowest basis," said Roger. "I haven't any facts to go upon——"
"You never have," interjected Jerry.
"But I'd like to bet that the Trade has made more money out of Bryce's American Commonwealth87 than it ever did out of all Parson Wright's books put together."
"What of it? Why shouldn't they make both?"
This preliminary tilt88 was interrupted by the arrival of two more visitors, and Roger handed round mugs of cider, pointed89 to the cake and the basket of pretzels, and lit his corn-cob pipe. The new arrivals were Quincy and Fruehling; the former a clerk in the book department of a vast drygoods store, the latter the owner of a bookshop in the Hebrew quarter of Grand Street—one of the best-stocked shops in the city, though little known to uptown book-lovers.
"Well," said Fruehling, his bright dark eyes sparkling above richly tinted90 cheek-bones and bushy beard, "what's the argument?"
"The usual one," said Gladfist, grinning, "Mifflin confusing merchandise with metaphysics."
MIFFLIN—Not at all. I am simply saying that it is good business to sell only the best.
GLADFIST—Wrong again. You must select your stock according to your customers. Ask Quincy here. Would there be any sense in his loading up his shelves with Maeterlinck and Shaw when the department-store trade wants Eleanor Porter and the Tarzan stuff? Does a country grocer carry the same cigars that are listed on the wine card of a Fifth Avenue hotel? Of course not. He gets in the cigars that his trade enjoys and is accustomed to. Bookselling must obey the ordinary rules of commerce.
MIFFLIN—A fig91 for the ordinary rules of commerce! I came over here to Gissing Street to get away from them. My mind would blow out its fuses if I had to abide92 by the dirty little considerations of supply and demand. As far as I am concerned, supply CREATES demand.
GLADFIST—Still, old chap, you have to abide by the dirty little consideration of earning a living, unless someone has endowed you?
BENSON—Of course my line of business isn't strictly93 the same as you fellows'. But a thought that has often occurred to me in selling rare editions may interest you. The customer's willingness to part with his money is usually in inverse94 ratio to the permanent benefit he expects to derive95 from what he purchases.
MEREDITH—Sounds a bit like John Stuart Mill.
BENSON—Even so, it may be true. Folks will pay a darned sight more to be amused than they will to be exalted96. Look at the way a man shells out five bones for a couple of theatre seats, or spends a couple of dollars a week on cigars without thinking of it. Yet two dollars or five dollars for a book costs him positive anguish97. The mistake you fellows in the retail98 trade have made is in trying to persuade your customers that books are necessities. Tell them they're luxuries. That'll get them! People have to work so hard in this life they're shy of necessities. A man will go on wearing a suit until it's threadbare, much sooner than smoke a threadbare cigar.
GLADFIST—Not a bad thought. You know, Mifflin here calls me a material-minded cynic, but by thunder, I think I'm more idealistic than he is. I'm no propagandist incessantly99 trying to cajole poor innocent customers into buying the kind of book _I_ think they ought to buy. When I see the helpless pathos100 of most of them, who drift into a bookstore without the slightest idea of what they want or what is worth reading, I would disdain101 to take advantage of their frailty102. They are absolutely at the mercy of the salesman. They will buy whatever he tells them to. Now the honourable103 man, the high-minded man (by which I mean myself) is too proud to ram32 some shimmering104 stuff at them just because he thinks they ought to read it. Let the boobs blunder around and grab what they can. Let natural selection operate. I think it is fascinating to watch them, to see their helpless groping, and to study the weird105 ways in which they make their choice. Usually they will buy a book either because they think the jacket is attractive, or because it costs a dollar and a quarter instead of a dollar and a half, or because they say they saw a review of it. The "review" usually turns out to be an ad. I don't think one book-buyer in a thousand knows the difference.
MIFFLIN—Your doctrine106 is pitiless, base, and false! What would you think of a physician who saw men suffering from a curable disease and did nothing to alleviate107 their sufferings?
GLADFIST—Their sufferings (as you call them) are nothing to what mine would be if I stocked up with a lot of books that no one but highbrows would buy. What would you think of a base public that would go past my shop day after day and let the high-minded occupant die of starvation?
MIFFLIN—Your ailment108, Jerry, is that you conceive yourself as merely a tradesman. What I'm telling you is that the bookseller is a public servant. He ought to be pensioned by the state. The honour of his profession should compel him to do all he can to spread the distribution of good stuff.
QUINCY—I think you forget how much we who deal chiefly in new books are at the mercy of the publishers. We have to stock the new stuff, a large proportion of which is always punk. Why it is punk, goodness knows, because most of the bum109 books don't sell.
MIFFLIN—Ah, that is a mystery indeed! But I can give you a fair reason. First, because there isn't enough good stuff to go round. Second, because of the ignorance of the publishers, many of whom honestly don't know a good book when they see it. It is a matter of sheer heedlessness in the selection of what they intend to publish. A big drug factory or a manufacturer of a well-known jam spends vast sums of money on chemically assaying and analyzing110 the ingredients that are to go into his medicines or in gathering and selecting the fruit that is to be stewed111 into jam. And yet they tell me that the most important department of a publishing business, which is the gathering and sampling of manuscripts, is the least considered and the least remunerated. I knew a reader for one publishing house: he was a babe recently out of college who didn't know a book from a frat pin. If a jam factory employs a trained chemist, why isn't it worth a publisher's while to employ an expert book analyzer? There are some of them. Look at the fellow who runs the Pacific Monthly's book business for example! He knows a thing or two.
CHAPMAN—I think perhaps you exaggerate the value of those trained experts. They are likely to be fourflushers. We had one once at our factory, and as far as I could make out he never thought we were doing good business except when we were losing money.
MIFFLIN—As far as I have been able to observe, making money is the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is to turn out an honest product, something that the public needs. Then you have to let them know that you have it, and teach them that they need it. They will batter112 down your front door in their eagerness to get it. But if you begin to hand them gold bricks, if you begin to sell them books built like an apartment house, all marble front and all brick behind, you're cutting your own throat, or rather cutting your own pocket, which is the same thing.
MEREDITH—I think Mifflin's right. You know the kind of place our shop is: a regular Fifth Avenue store, all plate glass front and marble columns glowing in the indirect lighting113 like a birchwood at full moon. We sell hundreds of dollars' worth of bunkum every day because people ask for it; but I tell you we do it with reluctance114. It's rather the custom in our shop to scoff115 at the book-buying public and call them boobs, but they really want good books—the poor souls don't know how to get them. Still, Jerry has a certain grain of truth to his credit. I get ten times more satisfaction in selling a copy of Newton's The Amenities116 of Book-Collecting than I do in selling a copy of—well, Tarzan; but it's poor business to impose your own private tastes on your customers. All you can do is to hint them along tactfully, when you get a chance, toward the stuff that counts.
QUINCY—You remind me of something that happened in our book department the other day. A flapper came in and said she had forgotten the name of the book she wanted, but it was something about a young man who had been brought up by the monks117. I was stumped118. I tried her with The Cloister119 and the Hearth120 and Monastery121 Bells and Legends of the Monastic Orders and so on, but her face was blank. Then one of the salesgirls overheard us talking, and she guessed it right off the bat. Of course it was Tarzan.
MIFFLIN—You poor simp, there was your chance to introduce her to Mowgli and the bandar-log.
QUINCY—True—I didn't think of it.
MIFFLIN—I'd like to get you fellows' ideas about advertising122. There was a young chap in here the other day from an advertising agency, trying to get me to put some copy in the papers. Have you found that it pays?
FRUEHLING—It always pays—somebody. The only question is, does it pay the man who pays for the ad?
MEREDITH—What do you mean?
FRUEHLING—Did you ever consider the problem of what I call tangential123 advertising? By that I mean advertising that benefits your rival rather than yourself? Take an example. On Sixth Avenue there is a lovely delicatessen shop, but rather expensive. Every conceivable kind of sweetmeat and relish124 is displayed in the brightly lit window. When you look at that window it simply makes your mouth water. You decide to have something to eat. But do you get it there? Not much! You go a little farther down the street and get it at the Automat or the Crystal Lunch. The delicatessen fellow pays the overhead expense of that beautiful food exhibit, and the other man gets the benefit of it. It's the same way in my business. I'm in a factory district, where people can't afford to have any but the best books. (Meredith will bear me out in saying that only the wealthy can afford the poor ones.) They read the book ads in the papers and magazines, the ads of Meredith's shop and others, and then they come to me to buy them. I believe in advertising, but I believe in letting someone else pay for it.
MIFFLIN—I guess perhaps I can afford to go on riding on Meredith's ads. I hadn't thought of that. But I think I shall put a little notice in one of the papers some day, just a little card saying
PARNASSUS AT HOME
GOOD BOOKS BOUGHT
AND SOLD
THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED
It will be fun to see what come-back I get.
QUINCY—The book section of a department store doesn't get much chance to enjoy that tangential advertising, as Fruehling calls it. Why, when our interior decorating shark puts a few volumes of a pirated Kipling bound in crushed oilcloth or a copy of "Knock-kneed Stories," into the window to show off a Louis XVIII boudoir suite125, display space is charged up against my department! Last summer he asked me for "something by that Ring fellow, I forget the name," to put a punchy finish on a layout of porch furniture. I thought perhaps he meant Wagner's Nibelungen operas, and began to dig them out. Then I found he meant Ring Lardner.
GLADFIST—There you are. I keep telling you bookselling is an impossible job for a man who loves literature. When did a bookseller ever make any real contribution to the world's happiness?
MIFFLIN—Dr. Johnson's father was a bookseller.
GLADFIST—Yes, and couldn't afford to pay for Sam's education.
FRUEHLING—There's another kind of tangential advertising that interests me. Take, for instance, a Coles Phillips painting for some brand of silk stockings. Of course the high lights of the picture are cunningly focussed on the stockings of the eminently126 beautiful lady; but there is always something else in the picture—an automobile127 or a country house or a Morris chair or a parasol—which makes it just as effective an ad for those goods as it is for the stockings. Every now and then Phillips sticks a book into his paintings, and I expect the Fifth Avenue book trade benefits by it. A book that fits the mind as well as a silk stocking does the ankle will be sure to sell.
MIFFLIN—You are all crass128 materialists. I tell you, books are the depositories of the human spirit, which is the only thing in this world that endures. What was it Shakespeare said—
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme—
By the bones of the Hohenzollerns, he was right! And wait a minute! There's something in Carlyle's Cromwell that comes back to me.
He ran excitedly out of the room, and the members of the Corn Cob fraternity grinned at each other. Gladfist cleaned his pipe and poured out some more cider. "He's off on his hobby," he chuckled. "I love baiting him."
"Speaking of Carlyle's Cromwell," said Fruehling, "that's a book I don't often hear asked for. But a fellow came in the other day hunting for a copy, and to my chagrin130 I didn't have one. I rather pride myself on keeping that sort of thing in stock. So I called up Brentano's to see if I could pick one up, and they told me they had just sold the only copy they had. Somebody must have been boosting Thomas! Maybe he's quoted in Tarzan, or somebody has bought up the film rights."
Mifflin came in, looking rather annoyed.
"Here's an odd thing," he said. "I know damn well that copy of Cromwell was on the shelf because I saw it there last night. It's not there now."
"That's nothing," said Quincy. "You know how people come into a second-hand131 store, see a book they take a fancy to but don't feel like buying just then, and tuck it away out of sight or on some other shelf where they think no one else will spot it, but they'll be able to find it when they can afford it. Probably someone's done that with your Cromwell."
"Maybe, but I doubt it," said Mifflin. "Mrs. Mifflin says she didn't sell it this evening. I woke her up to ask her. She was dozing over her knitting at the desk. I guess she's tired after her trip."
"I think I've got it jotted133 down in a notebook," said Roger, hunting along a shelf. "Yes, here it is." He read aloud:
"The works of a man, bury them under what guano-mountains and obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What of Heroism134, what of Eternal Light was in a Man and his Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eternities, remains135 forever a new divine portion of the Sum of Things.
"Now, my friends, the bookseller is one of the keys in that universal adding machine, because he aids in the cross-fertilization of men and books. His delight in his calling doesn't need to be stimulated even by the bright shanks of a Coles Phillips picture.
"Roger, my boy," said Gladfist, "your innocent enthusiasm makes me think of Tom Daly's favourite story about the Irish priest who was rebuking136 his flock for their love of whisky. 'Whisky,' he said, 'is the bane of this congregation. Whisky, that steals away a man's brains. Whisky, that makes you shoot at landlords—and not hit them!' Even so, my dear Roger, your enthusiasm makes you shoot at truth and never come anywhere near it."
"Jerry," said Roger, "you are a upas tree. Your shadow is poisonous!"
"Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Chapman, "I know Mrs. Mifflin wants to be relieved of her post. I vote we adjourn137 early. Your conversation is always delightful, though I am sometimes a bit uncertain as to the conclusions. My daughter is going to be a bookseller, and I shall look forward to hearing her views on the business."
As the guests made their way out through the shop, Mr. Chapman drew Roger aside. "It's perfectly all right about sending Titania?" he asked.
"Absolutely," said Roger. "When does she want to come?"
"Is to-morrow too soon?"
"The sooner the better. We've got a little spare room upstairs that she can have. I've got some ideas of my own about furnishing it for her. Send her round to-morrow afternoon."
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specially
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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alcoves
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alcove
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kindled
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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goad
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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10
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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11
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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12
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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13
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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14
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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15
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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16
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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17
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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18
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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19
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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20
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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21
folder
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| n.纸夹，文件夹 | |
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22
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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23
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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24
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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25
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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26
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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27
vendors
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|
| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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28
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
haze
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|
| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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30
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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31
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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32
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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33
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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34
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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35
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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36
draught
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|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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37
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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38
coffined
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|
| vt.收殓（coffin的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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39
encyclopaedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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40
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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41
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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42
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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43
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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44
sniffing
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|
| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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45
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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46
browsers
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| 浏览器 | |
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47
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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49
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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50
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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51
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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52
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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53
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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54
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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55
wedded
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|
| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
buxom
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|
| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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57
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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58
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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59
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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60
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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61
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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62
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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63
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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64
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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65
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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66
deduct
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| vt.扣除，减去 | |
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67
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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68
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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69
outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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70
naive
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|
| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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71
arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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72
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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73
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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74
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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75
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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76
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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77
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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79
Amended
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|
| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80
tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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81
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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82
brilliance
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|
| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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83
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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85
nourishment
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|
| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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86
invalid
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|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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87
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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88
tilt
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|
| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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89
pointed
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|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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90
tinted
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|
| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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91
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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92
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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93
strictly
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|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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94
inverse
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|
| adj.相反的，倒转的，反转的；n.相反之物；v.倒转 | |
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95
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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96
exalted
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|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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97
anguish
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|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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98
retail
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|
| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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99
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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100
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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101
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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102
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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103
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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104
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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105
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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106
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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107
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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108
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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109
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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110
analyzing
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| v.分析；分析( analyze的现在分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析n.分析 | |
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111
stewed
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|
| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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112
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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113
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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114
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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115
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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116
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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117
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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118
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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119
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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120
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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121
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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122
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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123
tangential
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| adj.离题的，切线的 | |
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124
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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125
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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126
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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127
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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128
crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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129
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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130
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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131
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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132
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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133
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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134
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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135
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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136
rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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137
adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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