In June, 1898, he sat on a palmetto trunk in the filthy11 camp of Tampa watching Eddie Bernamer pitch a ball to Joe Walling. Mark had every satisfaction in the sight and liked his piebald uniform much more than any costume hitherto. The camp pleased him as a problem. There would be plays made on the war, of course, and it wouldn’t be easy to mount them. These bright trees and the muddle12 of railroad ties could be effected but the theatre lacked lights to send down this parching13 glitter on black mud and strolling men. He sighed for realism. He had spent hours in Davidge’s workshop while the grass of “The Princess of Croy” was being made. It hadn’t the right sheen. The sunset had turned it blue and the sunset was all wrong even though the critics had praised it. Mark swung his gaiters and pondered irreproducible nature. But it would be nice to counterfeit15 all this—the glister of remote tin roofing, the harsh palms, the listless soldiery. The police would object to exactness of course. Brother Joe was pitching the ball with great flexures of his bronze, naked chest. Eddie Bernamer swore astoundingly when he ripped his undershirt. One couldn’t be so honest on the stage or echo the sharp, unreal note of[25] mail call sounding. Mark ran off to see if the wayward postal16 service had brought him a letter. There was a roll of newspapers addressed to his brother-in-law and Bernamer, a bad reader, turned them over to Mark and Joe. It was Joe who found the pencilled paragraph Mark rather expected. He slapped Mark’s back and grunted17, “Well, so there y’are, Bud.”
Mark read, “The suit for divorce begun by Mark Walling, the well known young actor against his wife, Cora Boyle Walling, was concluded yesterday. Neither party to the action was present in court. Miss Boyle is touring the West with the Jarvis Hope Stock Company. Jarvis Hope is named as co-respondent in the case. The action was not defended. Mr. Walling is now with the —th N.J. Infantry. The divorced couple were married in August, 1895. They have no children.”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” said Eddie Bernamer, “and don’t you let the next woman looks at you haul you off to a preacher, neither.”
Mark felt dubious18. There had never been a divorce in the family. He said, “I guess if we’d had a baby, she wouldn’t of—Dunno.... It’s kind of too bad.”
His relatives denied it. They had never liked Cora Boyle. She wasn’t a lady and her clothes had shocked Sadie’s conservative mind. They[26] pointed19 out that a stable and meritorious20 woman wouldn’t have seduced21 Mark before marriage. They were glad to see the boy free and were puzzled by his mournfulness. He agreed with their judgments23. But his eyes moistened for all their affectionate pawing. He muttered, “She was awful good lookin’,” and sat moody24 while they indicated advantages. He could save his pay, now, and wear respectable, black neckties, as a Walling should. He wouldn’t be bullied25 or have hot curling irons flung in his face. He could come home on the Saturday midnight train and stay until Monday afternoon. And Joe reasonably assured him that women were plentiful26. But Mark mourned, in his tangled27 fashion, the collapse28 of beauty. Cora, he choked, didn’t match her outside. She was ruthless, disturbing. She cared nothing for Mark’s pet plan of an ideal lighting29 system for theatres. She had spilled coffee on his smudged, laborious30 chart of a stage to be made in hinged parts. She called his sacred family a parcel of mossbacks and left the flat when Sadie and Bernamer brought their baby to town for a day. Still, Mark was mournful and often missed her for several years. He shuddered31 from marriage as a game more complicated than golf.
He was playing golf in May, 1902, with Ian Gail when the English playwright32 checked his[27] grammar. Mark flushed. The Englishman fooled with a putter for a second, considering this colour. He said, “I say, old son, d’you mind my giving you some advice?”
“Go ahead.”
“Carlson’s closing the play next week, he tells me. What will you do with yourself, all summer?”
“Go home.”
“Where’s that and what’s it like?”
Mark sat down on the green and chattered33 of the farm, and his family with particular mention of his nephew George Dewey Bernamer (born May 15, 1898) who called himself Gurdy. About Joe Walling’s baby daughter Mark wasn’t as yet enthusiastic. He talked with broad lapses34 into New Jersey singsong. His grey eyes dilated35. He babbled36 like an upset pail. The lean Englishman didn’t seem bored. Other people—Mrs. LeMoyne, old Mrs. Gilbert—had scolded Mark about these explosions. Gail let him talk for twenty minutes of warm noon and then said, “Quite right, old son. Stick to your people.... You’re a sentimental37 ass14, of course. I dare say that’s why you can put up with dinner at Carlson’s in that seething38 mass of red plush.”
“Of course he’s good to you. And it was good of you to make him mount my last act so[28] decently.... For some reason or other you’ve an eye for decoration. That’s by the way.—Now, I’ve a female cousin in Winchester, a Mrs. Ilden. She writes bad novels that no one reads and her husband’s in the Navy. I’m going to write her about you. You run across after the play stops. She’ll put you up for a month and you’ll pay her—I suggest a hundred pounds.”
“Pay her for what?”
“Her conversation, my boy. She’s quite clever and fearfully learned. Shaw likes her. She’s an anarchist40 and a determinist and all that and much older than you. She makes a business of tutoring youngsters who need—doing over a bit. You seem to have been reared on Henty and Shakespeare. Even Carlson says you need pruning41. There’s no use being antediluvian42 even if you are a rising young leading man.... God, how I hate the breed! I shouldn’t waste these words on you if you didn’t show vagrom gleams of common sense now and then. So I most seriously beg of you to go and let Olive—Mrs. Ilden, tutor you for a fortnight.”
“She can tell you anything you want to know and explain Winchester. The history of Winchester is the history of England,” Gail said, “and, of course, that’s the history of the world.”
[29]Thus, in early June, Mark was driven through Winchester and landed at the door of a brick house painted plum colour. A grey wall continued on either side of the ruddy front and nameless vines waved on the coping. Mark’s head ached from a supper at Romano’s the night previous but he admired the house and the obvious romance of the curving lane stippled44 with sunshine in plaques45 of honey. He rang the bell, gave a fat parlour-maid his card and waited for Mrs. Ilden in stolid46 terror. The hall had white panels of an approved stage pattern and was dotted with photographs. Mark was looking at the face of a bearded man whose eyebrows47 had a diabolic slant48 when Olive Ilden came in from her garden.
She came in a bad temper, deserting the discussion of Chamberlain’s Imperial policy about her tea table. She was prepared for a repetition of her last paying pupil, the one son of a Rand millionaire, a cub49 who wore five rubies50 on one hand and who talked racing51 at four meals a day. Mark unsettled her by his wooden stare and the black decency52 of his dress. His clothes were English. He was always tanned. The scar of Cora Boyle’s curling irons lay in a thread along his left jaw53. Olive revised a theory that Americans were short and looked up at him.
“I’ve some friends at tea,” she said, “Of[30] course, I don’t wish to impose tea on a Yankee.”
“I think I’d like some,” Mark said miserably54 and followed her trailing, white skirts down an endless garden. He thought her gown distinctly bad and sloppy55. She must be older than she looked or she wouldn’t be so careless. The girdle was crooked56 and the gauze across her shoulders was too tight. But it was a fine body, tall and proportionate. Her hair was a lustreless58 black. Meanwhile he had to think about this scene of an English garden. It phrased itself simply. Wall, rear. Tower of church, right background. Two small children playing with a kitten. Tea-table. Three ladies. Young man in tweeds. One clergyman.—It was like the garden set for the “Princess of Croy.” Mark braced59 himself, bowed and murmured in the manner of Mrs. LeMoyne, leaned on one of the limes in the manner of Herbert Kelcey, and drank his tea in the manner of Mr. Drew. The minor60 canon gave him a cigarette and Mark said, “Thanks so much.” The youth in tweeds asserted that it was beastly hot for June and Mark admitted, “Rather.” He stood sombre against the lime and the group was chilled by his chill. Two of the ladies fancied him a poet by the red curling of his hair. The guests withdrew. Olive Ilden fiddled61 with a teaspoon62 and frowned.
[31]“I rather expected you on Tuesday.”
“Had to stay in London. Mr. Carlson wanted me to look at a couple of plays he’s thinkin’ of bringing over.”
“Really, I don’t see why you Yankees always import our nonsense. One hears of the Pinero rubbish playing for thousands of nights in the States. Why?”
“The women like it,” he wildly said, quoting Carlson. “Are those your kids?”
“Mine and my husband’s,” Olive laughed and called Joan and Robert Ilden from their game with the kitten. Mark played with them in all content for half an hour, didn’t glance at Olive, and told her blond children about his best nephew, Gurdy Bernamer. The bored infants broke his watch chain and their puzzled mother took Mark to walk. She led him down through the college and wondered why he paused to stare at the cathedral walls where the sunshine was pallid63 on the weathered stone.—He was thinking that bulbs tinted64 straw colour might get this glow against properly painted canvas.—His eyes opened and his drowsy65 gaze pleased the woman. She said, “Do you like it? The cathedral?”
“The tower’s too small,” he said.
“Clever of you. Yes, architects think so. Glad you noticed.”
“Anybody could see that. Is that the Bishop66?”[32] he asked, seeing black gaiters in motion on a lawn.
“I’d just as soon,” he nodded, regretting that the queer shade of the elms wasn’t possible on a backdrop.
The interior charmed him. He forgot his headache. His thoughts hopped68. Church scenes never went well. No way to capture this slow echo for the stage. The upper brightness made him raise his eyes. This range of high windows where the lights melted together was called a “clerestory.” The mingled69 glory almost frightened him. He saw a white butterfly that jigged70 and wheeled, irreverent, solitary71 on the far shadows of the vault72. Mark smiled. Small Gurdy Bernamer named butterflies “bruffles” and was probably chasing one, now, across the hot perfume of the Fayettesville garden. The fancy made him homesick. He blinked. The woman watching him saw crystal wetness point his lashes73 and hastily stated, “This is William de Wykeham’s tomb.”
Mark examined the painted tomb, wished he could sketch74 the canopy75 and the pygmy monks76 who pray at the Bishop’s feet. Gurdy Bernamer would like the monks and would break them. He rubbed his nose and chuckled77.
[33]“I suppose,” Olive said, “that all this seems rather silly to you. You’re a practical people.”
“It’s good lookin’. I don’t see how a good lookin’ thing can be silly, exactly. I was thinkin’ my kid nephew’d like those monks to play with. But he’d bust78 them.—Isn’t King William Rufus buried here?”
“You’ve been reading a guide book!”
“Oh, no. That’s in history. They lugged79 him here on a wagon80 or something and buried him. Where’s he plant—buried?”
Mark wished that the dark lady would stop frowning as she steered81 him to the glum82, polished tomb in the choir83. He must be offensive to her. She said, “This is supposed to be the tomb. They’re not sure,” and Mark stared at the raised slab84 of ugly stone with awe85. The organ began to growl86 softly in a transept. It was solemn to stand, reflecting on the Red King while the organ moaned a marching air. William Rufus had been dead so long. History was amazing.... When he had a theatre of his own Mark meant to open it with Richard III or with Henry V. Carlson told him that no one would ever play Richard III again as Booth had gone too high in the part. But the Walling Theatre would be opened with a romantic play full of radiant clothes and scenes that would match the playhouse itself. The Walling would have a ceiling of dull[34] blue and boxes curtained in silk, black as a woman’s hair. The lamps should wane87 in the new manner when the acts began and there would be mirrors rimmed88 in faint silver to gleam in far nooks of the balcony—something to shimmer89 in corners and shadows of his dream.... Mark stared down the nave90 and built his theatre against the grey age of this place until Olive sat in a heap of muslin on the tomb of William Rufus.
“One doesn’t have to bother about such an indifferent king. There are some more in those tins—I mean caskets—on top of the choir screen. Edmund and so on.”
“More kings? But won’t a—a sacristan or something come an’ chase you off of here?”
“What do you know about sacristans?”
“Cathedrals always have sacristans in books.”
“I dare say you read quantities of bad novels,” she observed.
“Well, I like Monsieur Beaucaire and Kim better’n anything I’ve read lately,” said her bewildering pupil, “Say, who was Pico della Mirandola?”
“I don’t think I can talk about the Renascence in Winchester choir,” Olive choked and took him away.
Save for the studied clarity of voice he showed no theatrical traits. He resented the sign of The Plume91 of Feathers beside the West Gate because[35] “it spoiled the wall.” He asked if the Butter Cross was a well and bought several postcards at a shop where the squared panes92 arrested him. Olive made conjectures93. She was twenty-six. She had known actors in some bulk. This wasn’t an actor, observably. She guided him back toward the college and through a swarm94 of lads in flannels95. At these Mark looked and sighed.
“Dunno. I s’pose because kids are havin’ such an awful good time and don’t know it. I mean—they’ll get married and all that.”
“Are you married?”
Mark said cheerfully, “Divorced.”
“Tell me about it.”
“D—don’t think I’d better, Mrs. Ilden.”
“Is that American?”
“Is—is what?”
“That delicate respect for my sensibilities.”
“Don’t know what you mean exactly. I had to divorce Cor—my wife and I’d rather not talk about it.”
Olive felt alarmed. She said, “I’m supposed to tutor you in art and ethics96 and I’m merely trying to get your point of view, you know? Don’t look so shocked.”
“I don’t see what my gettin’ divorced has to do with art and ethics.... Oh, was this man Leighton a better painter’n Whistler?”
[36]His questions ranged from the salary of canons to professional cricket. He wore a small and single pearl in his shirt at dinner, sat eating chastely97 and stared at Olive between the candles that made his grey eyes black in the brown of his face. The parlour-maid brought him the silver bowl of chutney three unnecessary times. He timidly corrected Olive’s views on farm labour in the United States with, “I’m afraid you’re wrong. I was brought up on a farm.”
“Really? I was wondering.”
For a week Olive tried to outline this mentality99. He plunged100 from subject to subject. Economics wearied him. “What’s it matter what kind of a gover’ment you have so long as folks get enough to eat and the kids ain’t—don’t have to work?” Religion, he said, was all poppycock. His “papa” admired Robert Ingersoll and “What’s it matter whether folks have souls or not?”
“You’re a materialist,” she laughed.
“Well, what of it?”
“Because it ain’t fair. It’s like stealin’ a man’s wife.”
“Some one stole your wife, didn’t he?”
Mark finally chuckled. “You’d hardly call it[37] stealing. She just walked off when she knew I’d—heard about it.”
He blushed, hoping he hadn’t transgressed103 and hurriedly asked whether Bernard Shaw was really a vegetarian104. He had no opinion of Shaw’s plays but thought “The Devil’s Disciple” a better play than “Magda.” “The Sunken Bell” was “pretty near up to Shakespeare.” He was worried because “Treasure Island” couldn’t be dramatized and recited “Thanatopsis” to the horror of Olive’s children. Olive interrupted the recital105.
“That’ll be quite enough, thanks! Wherever did you pick up that sentimental rot?”
“Just what is bein’ sentimental?” Mark demanded.
“Never read any. Tried to. Couldn’t, except that Ulysses thing. Let’s go take a walk.”
“Too warm, thanks,” said Olive, wanting to see whether this would hold him in his basket chair under the limes.
“I’ll be back about tea time,” Mark promised, paused on his way up the garden to kiss Bobby Ilden’s fair head as the little boy reminded him of Gurdy Bernamer and vanished whistling “The Banks of the Wabash.”
“All his clothes are black,” said young Joan Ilden, “but I was helping107 Edith dust in his room[38] this morning and he has the nicest blue pyjamas108.”
“Do go pull Bobby out of the raspberries,” Olive said and fell into a sulk which she didn’t define. She lounged in her chair watching the light play on the straight bole of a tree behind the emptied place where Mark had been sitting.... Rage succeeded the sulk. This was a stupid augmentation of her income. Olive disapproved109 landholding but it would be easier every way when Ilden’s uncle died and he came into the Suffolk property. Then she would be able to live in London instead of flitting there for a breath of diversion. She hoped Mark would go to London soon.... He had the mind of a badly schooled stock-broker! Olive lifted her portfolio110 from the table and penciled a note to her husband. “I do wish you could slaughter111 your dear uncle, Jack112. Ian Gail has sent me a silly Yankee to educate. I hope I have no insular113 prejudice against the harmless, necessary Colonial but this cad—” Then she thought. “What am I saying here? I don’t mean it. I’m lying,” and tore up the paper.
Mark went swimming in the Itchen and did not come home until seven. He dressed in six minutes and found Olive clad in black lace by the drawing room mantel of white stone. He said, “Say, I ran into a flock of sheep an’ an old feller with a crook57. Do they still do that?”
[39]“Do?”
“Crooks. And he had on a blue—what d’you call it?—smock?”
Olive laughed and lifted her arms behind her head.
“Did you think some one was staging a pastoral for your benefit? But you didn’t come home to tea and there were some quite amusing people here. I kept them as long as I could.”
“Too bad,” said Mark, “I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t lie so. You’re not at all sorry. You’re bored when people come and you have to play the British gentleman. And there are so many other things better worth doing.”
“That’s in Shaw,” Mark guessed, “Clyde Fitch was talkin’ about it. But what’s wrong with actin’ like a gentleman?”
“What’s the use? Your manners are quite all right. If you’d talk to people and collect ideas.... It’s so much more important to straighten out your ideas than to stand and hold a teacup properly. A butler can do that. I could train a navvy to do that. And—”
“That’s an awful good looking dress,” he broke in, “Nicest you’ve had on since I’ve been here.”
Olive let an arm trail on the mantel where the stone cooled it. “I’m talking about your intellect and you talk about my frock.”
“I know something about dresses and I don’t[40] know a thing about intellect. You ought to wear dark things because you’ve got such a nice sk—complexion.”
“I don’t bother about clothes except when Jack’s at home and I want to keep his attention.... You were in Cuba, you said? Did you kill any one?”
“Don’t know. Tried to. Why?”
“I was wondering whether you’d mind killing114 an old duffer in Suffolk. He keeps my husband out of twelve hundred a year and a decentish house. Would you mind?”
Mark saw this was meant as a joke and laughed, studying her arm which gleamed white on the white stone.
“My husband’s uncle. He’s easily eighty and he’s very Tory.”
“Haven’t got any uncles. Got an aunt that’s pretty awful. She’s a Methodist.”
He wouldn’t look at her. He still stared at the arm sprawled115 on the mantel and smiled like a child. Olive wanted to hurt him suddenly, to rouse him. The glowing stare was too childish. She drawled, “I went into your bedroom to see that they’d swept it decently. Are those the family portraits on the desk? Who’s the fat girl with the baby?”
“Sadie. My sister. She’s puttin’ on weight. Papa keeps two hired girls now and she don’t[41] have to cook. The yellow-headed fellow’s her husband—Eddie Bernamer. Awful fine man.”
He beamed at Olive now, doting116 on Eddie Bernamer’s perfections. Olive tried, “And the lad with the very huge pearl in his scarf is your brother? And they all live on your father’s farm? And you go down there and bore yourself to death over weekends?”
“Don’t bore myself at all. I get all the New York I want weekdays. Fine to get out and ride a horse round. Nice house. We built a wing on when Joe got married last year.”
The parlour-maid announced dinner. Mark gave Olive his arm and wanted to stroke her arm white across the black of his sleeve. He talked of his family through the meal and after it, leaning on the piano while Olive played. He tortured her with anecdotes117 of his and Joe’s infancy118 and with the deeds of Gurdy Bernamer. He sighed, reporting that Sadie’s oldest girl had died.
“You mean you’re wearing mourning for a six year old child!”
“Of course,” said Mark.
“And then you ask me what a sentimentalist is!” Olive struck a discord119 into the Good Friday Spell and sneered120, “I dare say you think life’s so full of unpleasantness that it shouldn’t be brought into the theatre!”
“No. I don’t think that, exactly. But I don’t[42] think there’s any sense in doin’ a play where you can’t—can’t—well, make it good lookin’. These plays where there’s nothin’ but a perfec’ly ordinary family havin’ a fight and all that—A show ought to be something more.—You get the music in an opera. Carmen’d be a fine hunk of bosh if you didn’t have the music and the Spanish clothes. Just a dirty yarn121!... There’d ought to be somethin’ good lookin’ in a play.... Nobody believes a play but girls out of High School.... If you can’t have poetry like Shakespeare you ought to have something—something pretty—I don’t mean pretty—I mean—” Olive stopped the music. Mark descended122 rapidly and went on, “I don’t care about these two cent comedies, either.”
“You don’t like comedy?”
“Not much. Truth is, I don’t catch a joke easy. I’ve tried readin’ Molière but it sounds pretty dry to me. Haven’t tried—Aristophanes?—I guess that’s deeper’n I could swim—”
“Rot! You mustn’t let yourself—what is it?—be blinded by the glory of great names. Any one who can see the point in Patience can understand Aristophanes.... But you haven’t much humour. But you’ve played in comedy?”
“Some. I’d just as soon.”
Olive began “Anitra’s Dance” knowing that he liked melodrama123 and watched his eyes brighten,[43] dilating124. She said amiably125, “A fine comedian’s the greatest boon126 in the world. Women especially. Is it true that women who’re good in comedy are usually rather serious off the stage?”
“Can’t say—Well, my wife was pretty damn serious!”
His huge sigh made Olive laugh. She asked, “You’ve no children?”
“No. Guess that was the trouble.—Play that Peer Gynt Mornin’ thing.”
“I’ve played enough,” said Olive. “You say Mr. Carlson sent you over to look at some plays for him? He must trust your judgment22.”
Mark answered happily, “Sure. He says that if I take to a play so’ll every one else. He says I’ve got lots of judgment about plays.”
Olive shut the piano and rose. Her face wrinkled off into laughter. She said, “You dear thing! I dare say he’s quite right about that. Good night.”
She strolled out of the drawing room and Mark could see her passing up the long stairs. She moved splendidly against the white panels. One wrist caressed127 the rail. The black gown dragged gently up the rosy128 treads. She vanished slowly into the dark and Mark said, “Golly,” as he went to get his hat. He wandered over to the bar of the Black Swan and drank cold ale while he meditated129.
[44]He mustn’t fall in love. Eddie Bernamer and Joe disapproved of affairs with married women. They were right, of course. And nothing must interfere130 with his tutelage. And Ilden was at sea. But this was vexatious! He wished she did not stroll so lazily up stairs, across gardens. He wished that her hair wasn’t black.—He found himself blushing at breakfast when she came in with a yellow garden hat on the black of her hair. Now that he’d begun to think of it she looked rather like Cora Boyle.
He thought of Cora Boyle again in the garden after luncheon131. The children had left a green rubber ball on the turf. Mark rolled it about with one sole and watched Olive trim a patch of dull blue flowers. His place and the ball underfoot recalled something cloudy. He worked to evolve a real memory and laughed. Olive quickly glanced up.
“You keep asking about my wife. She was boardin’ with us at the farm. First time she ever spoke132 to me I was kicking a ball around, in the garden. This way. I was barefoot. Cora said, ‘Ain’t you too old to go barefooted?’ I forget what I said.”
“But with the ball that day you played no more?”
“That sounds like a piece of a play,” said Mark.
“It’s from a comedy,” Olive snapped, “Do get[45] your hat and take a walk. I’ll be busy for an hour. Look at the Deanery garden. The Dean’s gone to Scotland.”
“Got to write a letter first. Boat from Liverpool tomorrow.”
He mailed a letter to Joe’s wife, born Margaret Healy, tramped down to the Close and examined the Dean’s garden. It would make a neat setting, the mass of the Cathedral to the left, the foliate house to the right. A maid in black and white passed over the grass and reminded him of Joe’s wife again by a certain dragging gait. He went into the cathedral and studied the Wykeham tomb from all angles. Some tourists hummed in the nave; a guide in a frock coat ambled133 after them descanting thinly of dead kings. Mark fell into a genial134 peace, leaned on a column, smiling at the far roof. The feet of the tourists made a small melody among the tombs and this seemed to increase. He heard a rapid breath and saw Olive with his coat over her arm. She panted, “I’ve packed your things. They’re in the cab. At the gates. Hurry. You’ve hardly time to get to the station. Do hurry! I’ll telegraph to Liverpool and ask them to hold a cabin—stateroom—whatever they call them.—Oh, do hurry!”
“What’s happened?”
“Oh, this!—I didn’t look at the cover—thought it was from Jack—”
[46]Mark snatched the telegram and read, “Joe and Margaret killed wreck135 Trenton come if—” then rolled the paper into his palm. Olive saw his eyes swell136 and gasped137, “Who’s Margaret?”
“Joe’s wife. Where’s cab?”
“At the gates. Run.”
He dashed into the sun beyond the open doors then the red hair gleamed as he came wheeling back to gulp138, “Send you a check from—”
Olive spread her hands out crying, “No! I shan’t take it!” and saw him rush off again. The cab made no noise that she could hear. She shivered as if a warming fire died suddenly in winter and left her cold. Presently she struck a palm on the stone beside her and said, “Sentimentalist! Sentimentalist!” while she wept. She made use of Mark, though, in her next novel, The Barbarian139, which began her success. Mark was rather flattered by the picture and glad that he hadn’t insulted this clever, wise woman by making love to her. He thought of Olive as exalted140 from the ranks of passionate141, clutching females and often wrote long, artless letters to her.
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afflicted
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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rigidly
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sob
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commonwealth
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mused
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honourably
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jersey
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infantry
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regiment
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filthy
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muddle
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parching
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| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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15
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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16
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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17
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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18
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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19
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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20
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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21
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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22
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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23
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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24
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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25
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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27
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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28
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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29
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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30
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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31
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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32
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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33
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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34
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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35
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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37
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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38
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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39
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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40
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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41
pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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42
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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43
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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44
stippled
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| v.加点、绘斑，加粒( stipple的过去式和过去分词 )；（把油漆、水泥等的表面）弄粗糙 | |
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45
plaques
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| （纪念性的）匾牌( plaque的名词复数 )； 纪念匾； 牙斑； 空斑 | |
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46
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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47
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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48
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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49
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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50
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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51
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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52
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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53
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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54
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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55
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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56
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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57
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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58
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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59
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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60
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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61
fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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62
teaspoon
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| n.茶匙 | |
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63
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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64
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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65
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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66
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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67
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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68
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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69
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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70
jigged
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| v.（使）上下急动( jig的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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72
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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73
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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74
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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75
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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76
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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77
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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79
lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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80
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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81
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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82
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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83
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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84
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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85
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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86
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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87
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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88
rimmed
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| adj.有边缘的，有框的v.沿…边缘滚动；给…镶边 | |
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89
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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90
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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91
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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92
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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93
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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94
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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95
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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96
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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97
chastely
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| adv.贞洁地，清高地，纯正地 | |
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98
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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99
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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100
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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101
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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102
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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103
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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104
vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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105
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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106
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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107
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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108
pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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109
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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111
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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112
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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113
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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114
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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115
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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116
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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117
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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118
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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119
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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120
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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122
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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123
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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124
dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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125
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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126
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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127
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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129
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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130
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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131
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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132
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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133
ambled
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的过去式和过去分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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134
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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135
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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136
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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137
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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138
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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139
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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140
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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141
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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