A few days after the Baroness1 Munster had presented herself to her American kinsfolk she came, with her brother, and took up her abode2 in that small white house adjacent to Mr. Wentworth’s own dwelling3 of which mention has already been made. It was on going with his daughters to return her visit that Mr. Wentworth placed this comfortable cottage at her service; the offer being the result of a domestic colloquy4, diffused5 through the ensuing twenty-four hours, in the course of which the two foreign visitors were discussed and analyzed6 with a great deal of earnestness and subtlety7. The discussion went forward, as I say, in the family circle; but that circle on the evening following Madame M; auunster’s return to town, as on many other occasions, included Robert Acton and his pretty sister. If you had been present, it would probably not have seemed to you that the advent8 of these brilliant strangers was treated as an exhilarating occurrence, a pleasure the more in this tranquil9 household, a prospective10 source of entertainment. This was not Mr. Wentworth’s way of treating any human occurrence. The sudden irruption into the well-ordered consciousness of the Wentworths of an element not allowed for in its scheme of usual obligations required a readjustment of that sense of responsibility which constituted its principal furniture. To consider an event, crudely and baldly, in the light of the pleasure it might bring them was an intellectual exercise with which Felix Young’s American cousins were almost wholly unacquainted, and which they scarcely supposed to be largely pursued in any section of human society. The arrival of Felix and his sister was a satisfaction, but it was a singularly joyless and inelastic satisfaction. It was an extension of duty, of the exercise of the more recondite11 virtues12; but neither Mr. Wentworth, nor Charlotte, nor Mr. Brand, who, among these excellent people, was a great promoter of reflection and aspiration13, frankly14 adverted15 to it as an extension of enjoyment16. This function was ultimately assumed by Gertrude Wentworth, who was a peculiar17 girl, but the full compass of whose peculiarities18 had not been exhibited before they very ingeniously found their pretext19 in the presence of these possibly too agreeable foreigners. Gertrude, however, had to struggle with a great accumulation of obstructions20, both of the subjective21, as the metaphysicians say, and of the objective, order; and indeed it is no small part of the purpose of this little history to set forth22 her struggle. What seemed paramount23 in this abrupt24 enlargement of Mr. Wentworth’s sympathies and those of his daughters was an extension of the field of possible mistakes; and the doctrine25, as it may almost be called, of the oppressive gravity of mistakes was one of the most cherished traditions of the Wentworth family.
“I don’t believe she wants to come and stay in this house,” said Gertrude; Madame Munster, from this time forward, receiving no other designation than the personal pronoun. Charlotte and Gertrude acquired considerable facility in addressing her, directly, as “Eugenia;” but in speaking of her to each other they rarely called her anything but “she.”
“Does n’t she think it good enough for her?” cried little Lizzie Acton, who was always asking unpractical questions that required, in strictness, no answer, and to which indeed she expected no other answer than such as she herself invariably furnished in a small, innocently-satirical laugh.
“She certainly expressed a willingness to come,” said Mr. Wentworth.
“That was only politeness,” Gertrude rejoined.
“Yes, she is very polite — very polite,” said Mr. Wentworth.
“She is too polite,” his son declared, in a softly growling27 tone which was habitual28 to him, but which was an indication of nothing worse than a vaguely29 humorous intention. “It is very embarrassing.”
“That is more than can be said of you, sir,” said Lizzie Acton, with her little laugh.
“Well, I don’t mean to encourage her,” Clifford went on.
“I ‘m sure I don’t care if you do!” cried Lizzie.
“She will not think of you, Clifford,” said Gertrude, gravely.
“I hope not!” Clifford exclaimed.
“She will think of Robert,” Gertrude continued, in the same tone.
Robert Acton began to blush; but there was no occasion for it, for every one was looking at Gertrude — every one, at least, save Lizzie, who, with her pretty head on one side, contemplated30 her brother.
“Why do you attribute motives31, Gertrude?” asked Mr. Wentworth.
“I don’t attribute motives, father,” said Gertrude. “I only say she will think of Robert; and she will!”
“Gertrude judges by herself!” Acton exclaimed, laughing. “Don’t you, Gertrude? Of course the Baroness will think of me. She will think of me from morning till night.”
“She will be very comfortable here,” said Charlotte, with something of a housewife’s pride. “She can have the large northeast room. And the French bedstead,” Charlotte added, with a constant sense of the lady’s foreignness.
“She will not like it,” said Gertrude; “not even if you pin little tidies all over the chairs.”
“Why not, dear?” asked Charlotte, perceiving a touch of irony32 here, but not resenting it.
Gertrude had left her chair; she was walking about the room; her stiff silk dress, which she had put on in honor of the Baroness, made a sound upon the carpet. “I don’t know,” she replied. “She will want something more — more private.”
“If she wants to be private she can stay in her room,” Lizzie Acton remarked.
Gertrude paused in her walk, looking at her. “That would not be pleasant,” she answered. “She wants privacy and pleasure together.”
Robert Acton began to laugh again. “My dear cousin, what a picture!”
Charlotte had fixed33 her serious eyes upon her sister; she wondered whence she had suddenly derived34 these strange notions. Mr. Wentworth also observed his younger daughter.
“I don’t know what her manner of life may have been,” he said; “but she certainly never can have enjoyed a more refined and salubrious home.”
Gertrude stood there looking at them all. “She is the wife of a Prince,” she said.
“We are all princes here,” said Mr. Wentworth; “and I don’t know of any palace in this neighborhood that is to let.”
“Cousin William,” Robert Acton interposed, “do you want to do something handsome? Make them a present, for three months, of the little house over the way.”
“You are very generous with other people’s things!” cried his sister.
“Robert is very generous with his own things,” Mr. Wentworth observed dispassionately, and looking, in cold meditation35, at his kinsman36.
“Gertrude,” Lizzie went on, “I had an idea you were so fond of your new cousin.”
“Which new cousin?” asked Gertrude.
“I don’t mean the Baroness!” the young girl rejoined, with her laugh. “I thought you expected to see so much of him.”
“Of Felix? I hope to see a great deal of him,” said Gertrude, simply.
“Then why do you want to keep him out of the house?”
Gertrude looked at Lizzie Acton, and then looked away.
“Should you want me to live in the house with you, Lizzie?” asked Clifford.
“I hope you never will. I hate you!” Such was this young lady’s reply.
“Father,” said Gertrude, stopping before Mr. Wentworth and smiling, with a smile the sweeter, as her smile always was, for its rarity; “do let them live in the little house over the way. It will be lovely!”
Robert Acton had been watching her. “Gertrude is right,” he said. “Gertrude is the cleverest girl in the world. If I might take the liberty, I should strongly recommend their living there.”
“There is nothing there so pretty as the northeast room,” Charlotte urged.
“She will make it pretty. Leave her alone!” Acton exclaimed.
Gertrude, at his compliment, had blushed and looked at him: it was as if some one less familiar had complimented her. “I am sure she will make it pretty. It will be very interesting. It will be a place to go to. It will be a foreign house.”
“Are we very sure that we need a foreign house?” Mr. Wentworth inquired. “Do you think it desirable to establish a foreign house — in this quiet place?”
“You speak,” said Acton, laughing, “as if it were a question of the poor Baroness opening a wine-shop or a gaming-table.”
“It would be too lovely!” Gertrude declared again, laying her hand on the back of her father’s chair.
“That she should open a gaming-table?” Charlotte asked, with great gravity.
Gertrude looked at her a moment, and then, “Yes, Charlotte,” she said, simply.
“Gertrude is growing pert,” Clifford Wentworth observed, with his humorous young growl26. “That comes of associating with foreigners.”
Mr. Wentworth looked up at his daughter, who was standing37 beside him; he drew her gently forward. “You must be careful,” he said. “You must keep watch. Indeed, we must all be careful. This is a great change; we are to be exposed to peculiar influences. I don’t say they are bad. I don’t judge them in advance. But they may perhaps make it necessary that we should exercise a great deal of wisdom and self-control. It will be a different tone.”
Gertrude was silent a moment, in deference38 to her father’s speech; then she spoke39 in a manner that was not in the least an answer to it. “I want to see how they will live. I am sure they will have different hours. She will do all kinds of little things differently. When we go over there it will be like going to Europe. She will have a boudoir. She will invite us to dinner — very late. She will breakfast in her room.”
Charlotte gazed at her sister again. Gertrude’s imagination seemed to her to be fairly running riot. She had always known that Gertrude had a great deal of imagination — she had been very proud of it. But at the same time she had always felt that it was a dangerous and irresponsible faculty40; and now, to her sense, for the moment, it seemed to threaten to make her sister a strange person who should come in suddenly, as from a journey, talking of the peculiar and possibly unpleasant things she had observed. Charlotte’s imagination took no journeys whatever; she kept it, as it were, in her pocket, with the other furniture of this receptacle — a thimble, a little box of peppermint41, and a morsel42 of court-plaster. “I don’t believe she would have any dinner — or any breakfast,” said Miss Wentworth. “I don’t believe she knows how to do anything herself. I should have to get her ever so many servants, and she would n’t like them.”
“She has a maid,” said Gertrude; “a French maid. She mentioned her.”
“I wonder if the maid has a little fluted43 cap and red slippers,” said Lizzie Acton. “There was a French maid in that play that Robert took me to see. She had pink stockings; she was very wicked.”
“She was a soubrette,” Gertrude announced, who had never seen a play in her life. “They call that a soubrette. It will be a great chance to learn French.” Charlotte gave a little soft, helpless groan44. She had a vision of a wicked, theatrical45 person, clad in pink stockings and red shoes, and speaking, with confounding volubility, an incomprehensible tongue, flitting through the sacred penetralia of that large, clean house. “That is one reason in favor of their coming here,” Gertrude went on. “But we can make Eugenia speak French to us, and Felix. I mean to begin — the next time.”
Mr. Wentworth had kept her standing near him, and he gave her his earnest, thin, unresponsive glance again. “I want you to make me a promise, Gertrude,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked, smiling.
“Not to get excited. Not to allow these — these occurrences to be an occasion for excitement.”
She looked down at him a moment, and then she shook her head. “I don’t think I can promise that, father. I am excited already.”
Mr. Wentworth was silent a while; they all were silent, as if in recognition of something audacious and portentous46.
“I think they had better go to the other house,” said Charlotte, quietly.
“I shall keep them in the other house,” Mr. Wentworth subjoined, more pregnantly.
Gertrude turned away; then she looked across at Robert Acton. Her cousin Robert was a great friend of hers; she often looked at him this way instead of saying things. Her glance on this occasion, however, struck him as a substitute for a larger volume of diffident utterance47 than usual, inviting48 him to observe, among other things, the inefficiency49 of her father’s design — if design it was — for diminishing, in the interest of quiet nerves, their occasions of contact with their foreign relatives. But Acton immediately complimented Mr. Wentworth upon his liberality. “That ‘s a very nice thing to do,” he said, “giving them the little house. You will have treated them handsomely, and, whatever happens, you will be glad of it.” Mr. Wentworth was liberal, and he knew he was liberal. It gave him pleasure to know it, to feel it, to see it recorded; and this pleasure is the only palpable form of self-indulgence with which the narrator of these incidents will be able to charge him.
“A three days’ visit at most, over there, is all I should have found possible,” Madame Munster remarked to her brother, after they had taken possession of the little white house. “It would have been too intime — decidedly too intime. Breakfast, dinner, and tea en famille — it would have been the end of the world if I could have reached the third day.” And she made the same observation to her maid Augustine, an intelligent person, who enjoyed a liberal share of her confidence. Felix declared that he would willingly spend his life in the bosom51 of the Wentworth family; that they were the kindest, simplest, most amiable52 people in the world, and that he had taken a prodigious53 fancy to them all. The Baroness quite agreed with him that they were simple and kind; they were thoroughly54 nice people, and she liked them extremely. The girls were perfect ladies; it was impossible to be more of a lady than Charlotte Wentworth, in spite of her little village air. “But as for thinking them the best company in the world,” said the Baroness, “that is another thing; and as for wishing to live porte-a-porte with them, I should as soon think of wishing myself back in the convent again, to wear a bombazine apron55 and sleep in a dormitory.” And yet the Baroness was in high good humor; she had been very much pleased. With her lively perception and her refined imagination, she was capable of enjoying anything that was characteristic, anything that was good of its kind. The Wentworth household seemed to her very perfect in its kind — wonderfully peaceful and unspotted; pervaded56 by a sort of dove-colored freshness that had all the quietude and benevolence57 of what she deemed to be Quakerism, and yet seemed to be founded upon a degree of material abundance for which, in certain matters of detail, one might have looked in vain at the frugal58 little court of Silberstadt–Schreckenstein. She perceived immediately that her American relatives thought and talked very little about money; and this of itself made an impression upon Eugenia’s imagination. She perceived at the same time that if Charlotte or Gertrude should ask their father for a very considerable sum he would at once place it in their hands; and this made a still greater impression. The greatest impression of all, perhaps, was made by another rapid induction59. The Baroness had an immediate50 conviction that Robert Acton would put his hand into his pocket every day in the week if that rattle-pated little sister of his should bid him. The men in this country, said the Baroness, are evidently very obliging. Her declaration that she was looking for rest and retirement60 had been by no means wholly untrue; nothing that the Baroness said was wholly untrue. It is but fair to add, perhaps, that nothing that she said was wholly true. She wrote to a friend in Germany that it was a return to nature; it was like drinking new milk, and she was very fond of new milk. She said to herself, of course, that it would be a little dull; but there can be no better proof of her good spirits than the fact that she thought she should not mind its being a little dull. It seemed to her, when from the piazza61 of her eleemosynary cottage she looked out over the soundless fields, the stony62 pastures, the clear-faced ponds, the rugged63 little orchards64, that she had never been in the midst of so peculiarly intense a stillness; it was almost a delicate sensual pleasure. It was all very good, very innocent and safe, and out of it something good must come. Augustine, indeed, who had an unbounded faith in her mistress’s wisdom and far-sightedness, was a great deal perplexed66 and depressed67. She was always ready to take her cue when she understood it; but she liked to understand it, and on this occasion comprehension failed. What, indeed, was the Baroness doing dans cette galere? what fish did she expect to land out of these very stagnant68 waters? The game was evidently a deep one. Augustine could trust her; but the sense of walking in the dark betrayed itself in the physiognomy of this spare, sober, sallow, middle-aged69 person, who had nothing in common with Gertrude Wentworth’s conception of a soubrette, by the most ironical70 scowl71 that had ever rested upon the unpretending tokens of the peace and plenty of the Wentworths. Fortunately, Augustine could quench72 skepticism in action. She quite agreed with her mistress — or rather she quite out-stripped her mistress — in thinking that the little white house was pitifully bare. “Il faudra,” said Augustine, “lui faire un peu de toilette.” And she began to hang up portieres in the doorways73; to place wax candles, procured74 after some research, in unexpected situations; to dispose anomalous75 draperies over the arms of sofas and the backs of chairs. The Baroness had brought with her to the New World a copious76 provision of the element of costume; and the two Miss Wentworths, when they came over to see her, were somewhat bewildered by the obtrusive77 distribution of her wardrobe. There were India shawls suspended, curtain-wise, in the parlor78 door, and curious fabrics79, corresponding to Gertrude’s metaphysical vision of an opera-cloak, tumbled about in the sitting-places. There were pink silk blinds in the windows, by which the room was strangely bedimmed; and along the chimney-piece was disposed a remarkable80 band of velvet81, covered with coarse, dirty-looking lace. “I have been making myself a little comfortable,” said the Baroness, much to the confusion of Charlotte, who had been on the point of proposing to come and help her put her superfluous82 draperies away. But what Charlotte mistook for an almost culpably83 delayed subsidence Gertrude very presently perceived to be the most ingenious, the most interesting, the most romantic intention. “What is life, indeed, without curtains?” she secretly asked herself; and she appeared to herself to have been leading hitherto an existence singularly garish84 and totally devoid85 of festoons.
Felix was not a young man who troubled himself greatly about anything — least of all about the conditions of enjoyment. His faculty of enjoyment was so large, so unconsciously eager, that it may be said of it that it had a permanent advance upon embarrassment86 and sorrow. His sentient87 faculty was intrinsically joyous88, and novelty and change were in themselves a delight to him. As they had come to him with a great deal of frequency, his life had been more agreeable than appeared. Never was a nature more perfectly89 fortunate. It was not a restless, apprehensive90, ambitious spirit, running a race with the tyranny of fate, but a temper so unsuspicious as to put Adversity off her guard, dodging91 and evading92 her with the easy, natural motion of a wind-shifted flower. Felix extracted entertainment from all things, and all his faculties93 — his imagination, his intelligence, his affections, his senses — had a hand in the game. It seemed to him that Eugenia and he had been very well treated; there was something absolutely touching94 in that combination of paternal95 liberality and social considerateness which marked Mr. Wentworth’s deportment. It was most uncommonly96 kind of him, for instance, to have given them a house. Felix was positively97 amused at having a house of his own; for the little white cottage among the apple-trees — the chalet, as Madame Munster always called it — was much more sensibly his own than any domiciliary quatrieme, looking upon a court, with the rent overdue98. Felix had spent a good deal of his life in looking into courts, with a perhaps slightly tattered99 pair of elbows resting upon the ledge100 of a high-perched window, and the thin smoke of a cigarette rising into an atmosphere in which street-cries died away and the vibration101 of chimes from ancient belfries became sensible. He had never known anything so infinitely102 rural as these New England fields; and he took a great fancy to all their pastoral roughnesses. He had never had a greater sense of luxurious103 security; and at the risk of making him seem a rather sordid104 adventurer I must declare that he found an irresistible105 charm in the fact that he might dine every day at his uncle’s. The charm was irresistible, however, because his fancy flung a rosy106 light over this homely107 privilege. He appreciated highly the fare that was set before him. There was a kind of fresh-looking abundance about it which made him think that people must have lived so in the mythological108 era, when they spread their tables upon the grass, replenished109 them from cornucopias110, and had no particular need of kitchen stoves. But the great thing that Felix enjoyed was having found a family — sitting in the midst of gentle, generous people whom he might call by their first names. He had never known anything more charming than the attention they paid to what he said. It was like a large sheet of clean, fine-grained drawing-paper, all ready to be washed over with effective splashes of water-color. He had never had any cousins, and he had never before found himself in contact so unrestricted with young unmarried ladies. He was extremely fond of the society of ladies, and it was new to him that it might be enjoyed in just this manner. At first he hardly knew what to make of his state of mind. It seemed to him that he was in love, indiscriminately, with three girls at once. He saw that Lizzie Acton was more brilliantly pretty than Charlotte and Gertrude; but this was scarcely a superiority. His pleasure came from something they had in common — a part of which was, indeed, that physical delicacy111 which seemed to make it proper that they should always dress in thin materials and clear colors. But they were delicate in other ways, and it was most agreeable to him to feel that these latter delicacies112 were appreciable113 by contact, as it were. He had known, fortunately, many virtuous114 gentlewomen, but it now appeared to him that in his relations with them (especially when they were unmarried) he had been looking at pictures under glass. He perceived at present what a nuisance the glass had been — how it perverted115 and interfered116, how it caught the reflection of other objects and kept you walking from side to side. He had no need to ask himself whether Charlotte and Gertrude, and Lizzie Acton, were in the right light; they were always in the right light. He liked everything about them: he was, for instance, not at all above liking117 the fact that they had very slender feet and high insteps. He liked their pretty noses; he liked their surprised eyes and their hesitating, not at all positive way of speaking; he liked so much knowing that he was perfectly at liberty to be alone for hours, anywhere, with either of them; that preference for one to the other, as a companion of solitude118, remained a minor119 affair. Charlotte Wentworth’s sweetly severe features were as agreeable as Lizzie Acton’s wonderfully expressive120 blue eyes; and Gertrude’s air of being always ready to walk about and listen was as charming as anything else, especially as she walked very gracefully121. After a while Felix began to distinguish; but even then he would often wish, suddenly, that they were not all so sad. Even Lizzie Acton, in spite of her fine little chatter123 and laughter, appeared sad. Even Clifford Wentworth, who had extreme youth in his favor, and kept a buggy with enormous wheels and a little sorrel mare124 with the prettiest legs in the world — even this fortunate lad was apt to have an averted125, uncomfortable glance, and to edge away from you at times, in the manner of a person with a bad conscience. The only person in the circle with no sense of oppression of any kind was, to Felix’s perception, Robert Acton.
It might perhaps have been feared that after the completion of those graceful122 domiciliary embellishments which have been mentioned Madame M; auunster would have found herself confronted with alarming possibilities of ennui126. But as yet she had not taken the alarm. The Baroness was a restless soul, and she projected her restlessness, as it may be said, into any situation that lay before her. Up to a certain point her restlessness might be counted upon to entertain her. She was always expecting something to happen, and, until it was disappointed, expectancy127 itself was a delicate pleasure. What the Baroness expected just now it would take some ingenuity128 to set forth; it is enough that while she looked about her she found something to occupy her imagination. She assured herself that she was enchanted129 with her new relatives; she professed130 to herself that, like her brother, she felt it a sacred satisfaction to have found a family. It is certain that she enjoyed to the utmost the gentleness of her kinsfolk’s deference. She had, first and last, received a great deal of admiration131, and her experience of well-turned compliments was very considerable; but she knew that she had never been so real a power, never counted for so much, as now when, for the first time, the standard of comparison of her little circle was a prey132 to vagueness. The sense, indeed, that the good people about her had, as regards her remarkable self, no standard of comparison at all gave her a feeling of almost illimitable power. It was true, as she said to herself, that if for this reason they would be able to discover nothing against her, so they would perhaps neglect to perceive some of her superior points; but she always wound up her reflections by declaring that she would take care of that.
Charlotte and Gertrude were in some perplexity between their desire to show all proper attention to Madame Munster and their fear of being importunate133. The little house in the orchard65 had hitherto been occupied during the summer months by intimate friends of the family, or by poor relations who found in Mr. Wentworth a landlord attentive134 to repairs and oblivious135 of quarter-day. Under these circumstances the open door of the small house and that of the large one, facing each other across their homely gardens, levied136 no tax upon hourly visits. But the Misses Wentworth received an impression that Eugenia was no friend to the primitive137 custom of “dropping in;” she evidently had no idea of living without a door-keeper. “One goes into your house as into an inn — except that there are no servants rushing forward,” she said to Charlotte. And she added that that was very charming. Gertrude explained to her sister that she meant just the reverse; she did n’t like it at all. Charlotte inquired why she should tell an untruth, and Gertrude answered that there was probably some very good reason for it which they should discover when they knew her better. “There can surely be no good reason for telling an untruth,” said Charlotte. “I hope she does not think so.”
They had of course desired, from the first, to do everything in the way of helping138 her to arrange herself. It had seemed to Charlotte that there would be a great many things to talk about; but the Baroness was apparently139 inclined to talk about nothing.
“Write her a note, asking her leave to come and see her. I think that is what she will like,” said Gertrude.
“Why should I give her the trouble of answering me?” Charlotte asked. “She will have to write a note and send it over.”
“I don’t think she will take any trouble,” said Gertrude, profoundly.
“What then will she do?”
“That is what I am curious to see,” said Gertrude, leaving her sister with an impression that her curiosity was morbid140.
They went to see the Baroness without preliminary correspondence; and in the little salon141 which she had already created, with its becoming light and its festoons, they found Robert Acton.
Eugenia was intensely gracious, but she accused them of neglecting her cruelly. “You see Mr. Acton has had to take pity upon me,” she said. “My brother goes off sketching142, for hours; I can never depend upon him. So I was to send Mr. Acton to beg you to come and give me the benefit of your wisdom.”
Gertrude looked at her sister. She wanted to say, “That is what she would have done.” Charlotte said that they hoped the Baroness would always come and dine with them; it would give them so much pleasure; and, in that case, she would spare herself the trouble of having a cook.
“Ah, but I must have a cook!” cried the Baroness. “An old negress in a yellow turban. I have set my heart upon that. I want to look out of my window and see her sitting there on the grass, against the background of those crooked143, dusky little apple-trees, pulling the husks off a lapful of Indian corn. That will be local color, you know. There is n’t much of it here — you don’t mind my saying that, do you?— so one must make the most of what one can get. I shall be most happy to dine with you whenever you will let me; but I want to be able to ask you sometimes. And I want to be able to ask Mr. Acton,” added the Baroness.
“You must come and ask me at home,” said Acton. “You must come and see me; you must dine with me first. I want to show you my place; I want to introduce you to my mother.” He called again upon Madame M; auunster, two days later. He was constantly at the other house; he used to walk across the fields from his own place, and he appeared to have fewer scruples144 than his cousins with regard to dropping in. On this occasion he found that Mr. Brand had come to pay his respects to the charming stranger; but after Acton’s arrival the young theologian said nothing. He sat in his chair with his two hands clasped, fixing upon his hostess a grave, fascinated stare. The Baroness talked to Robert Acton, but, as she talked, she turned and smiled at Mr. Brand, who never took his eyes off her. The two men walked away together; they were going to Mr. Wentworth’s. Mr. Brand still said nothing; but after they had passed into Mr. Wentworth’s garden he stopped and looked back for some time at the little white house. Then, looking at his companion, with his head bent145 a little to one side and his eyes somewhat contracted, “Now I suppose that ‘s what is called conversation,” he said; “real conversation.”
“It ‘s what I call a very clever woman,” said Acton, laughing.
“It is most interesting,” Mr. Brand continued. “I only wish she would speak French; it would seem more in keeping. It must be quite the style that we have heard about, that we have read about — the style of conversation of Madame de Stael, of Madame Recamier.”
Acton also looked at Madame Munster’s residence among its hollyhocks and apple-trees. “What I should like to know,” he said, smiling, “is just what has brought Madame Recamier to live in that place!”
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baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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13
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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adverted
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| 引起注意（advert的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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16
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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17
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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18
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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19
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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20
obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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21
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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22
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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23
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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24
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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25
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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26
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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27
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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28
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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29
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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30
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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31
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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32
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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33
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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34
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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35
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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36
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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37
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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38
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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39
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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40
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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41
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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42
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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43
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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44
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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45
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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46
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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47
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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48
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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49
inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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50
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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51
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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52
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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53
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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54
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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55
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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56
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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58
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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59
induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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60
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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61
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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62
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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63
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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64
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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65
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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66
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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67
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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68
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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69
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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70
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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71
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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72
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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73
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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74
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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75
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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76
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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77
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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78
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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79
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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80
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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81
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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82
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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83
culpably
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| adv.该罚地，可恶地 | |
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84
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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85
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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86
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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87
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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88
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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89
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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90
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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91
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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92
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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93
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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94
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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95
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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96
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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97
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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98
overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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99
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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100
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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101
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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102
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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103
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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104
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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105
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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106
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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107
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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108
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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109
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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110
cornucopias
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| n.丰饶角（象征丰饶的羊角，角内呈现满溢的鲜花、水果等）( cornucopia的名词复数 ) | |
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111
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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112
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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113
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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114
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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115
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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116
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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117
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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118
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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119
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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120
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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121
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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122
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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123
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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124
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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125
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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126
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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127
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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128
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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129
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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130
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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131
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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132
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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133
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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134
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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135
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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136
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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137
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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138
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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139
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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140
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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141
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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142
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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143
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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144
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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145
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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