The more conscious she became of this requirement of her nature, the more clearly did she perceive that her hopes had been founded on an error. Reardon would never be a great man; he would never even occupy a prominent place in the estimation of the public. The two things, Amy knew, might be as different as light and darkness; but in the grief of her disappointment she would rather have had him flare3 into a worthless popularity than flicker4 down into total extinction5, which it almost seemed was to be his fate.
She knew so well how ‘people’ were talking of him and her. Even her unliterary acquaintances understood that Reardon’s last novel had been anything but successful, and they must of course ask each other how the Reardons were going to live if the business of novel-writing proved unremunerative. Her pride took offence at the mere6 thought of such conversations. Presently she would become an object of pity; there would be talk of ‘poor Mrs Reardon.’ It was intolerable.
So during the last half year she had withheld7 as much as possible from the intercourse which might have been one of her chief pleasures. And to disguise the true cause she made pretences8 which were a satire10 upon her state of mind — alleging11 that she had devoted12 herself to a serious course of studies, that the care of house and child occupied all the time she could spare from her intellectual pursuits. The worst of it was, she had little faith in the efficacy of these fictions; in uttering them she felt an unpleasant warmth upon her cheeks, and it was not difficult to detect a look of doubt in the eyes of the listener. She grew angry with herself for being dishonest, and with her husband for making such dishonesty needful.
The female friend with whom she had most trouble was Mrs Carter. You remember that on the occasion of Reardon’s first meeting with his future wife, at the Grosvenor Gallery, there were present his friend Carter and a young lady who was shortly to bear the name of that spirited young man. The Carters had now been married about a year; they lived in Bayswater, and saw much of a certain world which imitates on a lower plane the amusements and affectations of society proper. Mr Carter was still secretary to the hospital where Reardon had once earned his twenty shillings a week, but by voyaging in the seas of charitable enterprise he had come upon supplementary13 sources of income; for instance, he held the post of secretary to the Barclay Trust, a charity whose moderate funds were largely devoted to the support of gentlemen engaged in administering it. This young man, with his air of pleasing vivacity14, had early ingratiated himself with the kind of people who were likely to be of use to him; he had his reward in the shape of offices which are only procured15 through private influence. His wife was a good-natured, lively, and rather clever girl; she had a genuine regard for Amy, and much respect for Reardon. Her ambition was to form a circle of distinctly intellectual acquaintances, and she was constantly inviting17 the Reardons to her house; a real live novelist is not easily drawn18 into the world where Mrs Carter had her being, and it annoyed her that all attempts to secure Amy and her husband for five-o’clock teas and small parties had of late failed.
On the afternoon when Reardon had visited a second-hand19 bookseller with a view of raising money — he was again shut up in his study, dolorously20 at work — Amy was disturbed by the sound of a visitor’s rat-tat; the little servant went to the door, and returned followed by Mrs Carter.
Under the best of circumstances it was awkward to receive any but intimate friends during the hours when Reardon sat at his desk. The little dining-room (with its screen to conceal21 the kitchen range) offered nothing more than homely22 comfort; and then the servant had to be disposed of by sending her into the bedroom to take care of Willie. Privacy, in the strict sense, was impossible, for the servant might listen at the door (one room led out of the other) to all the conversation that went on; yet Amy could not request her visitors to speak in a low tone. For the first year these difficulties had not been felt; Reardon made a point of leaving the front room at his wife’s disposal from three to six; it was only when dread23 of the future began to press upon him that he sat in the study all day long. You see how complicated were the miseries24 of the situation; one torment25 involved another, and in every quarter subjects of discontent were multiplied.
Mrs Carter would have taken it ill had she known that Amy did not regard her as strictly26 an intimate. They addressed each other by their Christian27 names, and conversed28 without ceremony; but Amy was always dissatisfied when the well-dressed young woman burst with laughter and animated29 talk into this abode30 of concealed31 poverty. Edith was not the kind of person with whom one can quarrel; she had a kind heart, and was never disagreeably pretentious32. Had circumstances allowed it, Amy would have given frank welcome to such friendship; she would have been glad to accept as many invitations as Edith chose to offer. But at present it did her harm to come in contact with Mrs Carter; it made her envious33, cold to her husband, resentful against fate.
‘Why can’t she leave me alone?’ was the thought that rose in her mind as Edith entered. ‘I shall let her see that I don’t want her here.’
‘Your husband at work?’ Edith asked, with a glance in the direction of the study, as soon as they had exchanged kisses and greetings.
‘Yes, he is busy.’
‘And you are sitting alone, as usual. I feared you might be out; an afternoon of sunshine isn’t to be neglected at this time of year.’
‘Is there sunshine?’ Amy inquired coldly.
‘Why, look! Do you mean to say you haven’t noticed it? What a comical person you are sometimes! I suppose you have been over head and ears in books all day. How is Willie?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Mayn’t I see him?’
‘If you like.’
Amy stepped to the bedroom door and bade the servant bring Willie for exhibition. Edith, who as yet had no child of her own, always showed the most flattering admiration35 of this infant; it was so manifestly sincere that the mother could not but be moved to a grateful friendliness36 whenever she listened to its expression. Even this afternoon the usual effect followed when Edith had made a pretty and tender fool of herself for several minutes. Amy bade the servant make tea.
At this moment the door from the passage opened, and Reardon looked in.
‘Well, if this isn’t marvellous!’ cried Edith. ‘I should as soon have expected the heavens to fall!’
‘As what?’ asked Reardon, with a pale smile.
‘As you to show yourself when I am here.’
‘I should like to say that I came on purpose to see you, Mrs Carter, but it wouldn’t be true. I’m going out for an hour, so that you can take possession of the other room if you like, Amy.’
‘Going out?’ said Amy, with a look of surprise.
‘Nothing — nothing. I mustn’t stay.’
He just inquired of Mrs Carter how her husband was, and withdrew. The door of the flat was heard to close after him.
‘Let us go into the study, then,’ said Amy, again in rather a cold voice.
On Reardon’s desk were lying slips of blank paper. Edith, approaching on tiptoe with what was partly make believe, partly genuine, awe37, looked at the literary apparatus38, then turned with a laugh to her friend.
‘How delightful39 it must be to sit down and write about people one has invented! Ever since I have known you and Mr Reardon I have been tempted40 to try if I couldn’t write a story.’
‘Have you?’
‘And I’m sure I don’t know how you can resist the temptation. I feel sure you could write books almost as clever as your husband’s.’
‘I have no intention of trying.’
‘You don’t seem very well to-day, Amy.’
‘Oh, I think I am as well as usual.’
She guessed that her husband was once more brought to a standstill, and this darkened her humour again.
‘One of my reasons for corning,’ said Edith, ‘was to beg and entreat41 and implore42 you and Mr Reardon to dine with us next Wednesday. Now, don’t put on such a severe face! Are you engaged that evening?’
‘Yes; in the ordinary way. Edwin can’t possibly leave his work.’
‘But for one poor evening! It’s such ages since we saw you.’
‘I’m very sorry. I don’t think we shall ever be able to accept invitations in future.’
Amy spoke43 thus at the prompting of a sudden impulse. A minute ago, no such definite declaration was in her mind.
‘Never?’ exclaimed Edith. ‘But why? Whatever do you mean?’
‘We find that social engagements consume too much time,’ Amy replied, her explanation just as much of an impromptu44 as the announcement had been. ‘You see, one must either belong to society or not. Married people can’t accept an occasional invitation from friends and never do their social duty in return.
We have decided45 to withdraw altogether — at all events for the present. I shall see no one except my relatives.’
Edith listened with a face of astonishment46.
‘You won’t even see ME?’ she exclaimed.
‘Indeed, I have no wish to lose your friendship. Yet I am ashamed to ask you to come here when I can never return your visits.’
‘Oh, please don’t put it in that way! But it seems so very strange.’
Edith could not help conjecturing47 the true significance of this resolve. But, as is commonly the case with people in easy circumstances, she found it hard to believe that her friends were so straitened as to have a difficulty in supporting the ordinary obligations of a civilised state.
‘I know how precious your husband’s time is,’ she added, as if to remove the effect of her last remark. ‘Surely, there’s no harm in my saying — we know each other well enough — you wouldn’t think it necessary to devote an evening to entertaining us just because you had given us the pleasure of your company. I put it very stupidly, but I’m sure you understand me, Amy. Don’t refuse just to come to our house now and then.’
‘I’m afraid we shall have to be consistent, Edith.’
‘But do you think this is a WISE thing to do?’
‘Wise?’
‘You know what you once told me, about how necessary it was for a novelist to study all sorts of people. How can Mr Reardon do this if he shuts himself up in the house? I should have thought he would find it necessary to make new acquaintances.’
‘As I said,’ returned Amy, ‘it won’t be always like this. For the present, Edwin has quite enough “material.”’
She spoke distantly; it irritated her to have to invent excuses for the sacrifice she had just imposed on herself. Edith sipped48 the tea which had been offered her, and for a minute kept silence.
‘When will Mr Reardon’s next book be published?’ she asked at length.
‘I’m sure I don’t know. Not before the spring.’
‘I shall look so anxiously for it. Whenever I meet new people I always turn the conversation to novels, just for the sake of asking them if they know your husband’s books.’
She laughed merrily.
‘Which is seldom the case, I should think,’ said Amy, with a smile of indifference49.
‘Well, my dear, you don’t expect ordinary novel-readers to know about Mr Reardon. I wish my acquaintances were a better kind of people; then, of course, I should hear of his books more often. But one has to make the best of such society as offers. If you and your husband forsake50 me, I shall feel it a sad loss; I shall indeed.’
Amy gave a quick glance at the speaker’s face.
‘Oh, we must be friends just the same,’ she said, more naturally than she had spoken hitherto. ‘But don’t ask us to come and dine just now. All through this winter we shall be very busy, both of us. Indeed, we have decided not to accept any invitations at all.’
‘Then, so long as you let me come here now and then, I must give in. I promise not to trouble you with any more complaining. But how you can live such a life I don’t know. I consider myself more of a reader than women generally are, and I should be mortally offended if anyone called me frivolous51; but I must have a good deal of society. Really and truly, I can’t live without it.’
‘No?’ said Amy, with a smile which meant more than Edith could interpret. It seemed slightly condescending52.
‘There’s no knowing; perhaps if I had married a literary man ——’ She paused, smiling and musing53. ‘But then I haven’t, you see.’ She laughed. ‘Albert is anything but a bookworm, as you know.’
‘You wouldn’t wish him to be.’
‘Oh no! Not a bookworm. To be sure, we suit each other very well indeed. He likes society just as much as I do. It would be the death of him if he didn’t spend three-quarters of every day with lively people.’
‘That’s rather a large portion. But then you count yourself among the lively ones.’
They exchanged looks, and laughed together.
‘Of course you think me rather silly to want to talk so much with silly people,’ Edith went on. ‘But then there’s generally some amusement to be got, you know. I don’t take life quite so seriously as you do. People are people, after all; it’s good fun to see how they live and hear how they talk.’
Amy felt that she was playing a sorry part. She thought of sour grapes, and of the fox who had lost his tail. Worst of all, perhaps Edith suspected the truth. She began to make inquiries54 about common acquaintances, and fell into an easier current of gossip.
A quarter of an hour after the visitor’s departure Reardon came back. Amy had guessed aright; the necessity of selling his books weighed upon him so that for the present he could do nothing. The evening was spent gloomily, with very little conversation.
Next day came the bookseller to make his inspection55. Reardon had chosen out and ranged upon a table nearly a hundred volumes. With a few exceptions, they had been purchased second-hand. The tradesman examined them rapidly.
‘What do you ask?’ he inquired, putting his head aside.
‘I prefer that you should make an offer,’ Reardon replied, with the helplessness of one who lives remote from traffic.
‘I can’t say more than two pounds ten.’
‘That is at the rate of sixpence a volume ——?’
‘To me that’s about the average value of books like these.’
Perhaps the offer was a fair one; perhaps it was not. Reardon had neither time nor spirit to test the possibilities of the market; he was ashamed to betray his need by higgling.
‘I’ll take it,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact voice.
A messenger was sent for the books that afternoon. He stowed them skilfully56 in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that was waiting.
Reardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves. Many of those vanished volumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told you where he had picked them up and when; to open them recalled a past moment of intellectual growth, a mood of hope or despondency, a stage of struggle. In most of them his name was written, and there were often pencilled notes in the margin57. Of course he had chosen from among the most valuable he possessed58; such a multitude must else have been sold to make this sum of two pounds ten. Books are cheap, you know. At need, one can buy a Homer for fourpence, a Sophocles for sixpence. It was not rubbish that he had accumulated at so small expenditure59, but the library of a poor student — battered60 bindings, stained pages, supplanted61 editions. He loved his books, but there was something he loved more, and when Amy glanced at him with eyes of sympathy he broke into a cheerful laugh.
‘I’m only sorry they have gone for so little. Tell me when the money is nearly at an end again, and you shall have more. It’s all right; the novel will be done soon.’
And that night he worked until twelve o’clock, doggedly62, fiercely.
The next day was Sunday. As a rule he made it a day of rest, and almost perforce, for the depressing influence of Sunday in London made work too difficult. Then, it was the day on which he either went to see his own particular friends or was visited by them.
‘Do you expect anyone this evening?’ Amy inquired.
‘Biffen will look in, I dare say. Perhaps Milvain.’
‘I think I shall take Willie to mother’s. I shall be back before eight.’
‘Amy, don’t say anything about the books.’
‘No, no.’
‘I suppose they always ask you when we think of removing over the way?’
He pointed63 in a direction that suggested Marylebone Workhouse. Amy tried to laugh, but a woman with a child in her arms has no keen relish64 for such jokes.
‘I don’t talk to them about our affairs,’ she said.
‘That’s best.’
She left home about three o’clock, the servant going with her to carry the child.
At five a familiar knock sounded through the flat; it was a heavy rap followed by half-a-dozen light ones, like a reverberating65 echo, the last stroke scarcely audible. Reardon laid down his book, but kept his pipe in his mouth, and went to the door. A tall, thin man stood there, with a slouch hat and long grey overcoat. He shook hands silently, hung his hat in the passage, and came forward into the study.
His name was Harold Biffen, and, to judge from his appearance, he did not belong to the race of common mortals. His excessive meagreness would all but have qualified66 him to enter an exhibition in the capacity of living skeleton, and the garments which hung upon this framework would perhaps have sold for three-and-sixpence at an old-clothes dealer’s. But the man was superior to these accidents of flesh and raiment. He had a fine face: large, gentle eyes, nose slightly aquiline67, small and delicate mouth. Thick black hair fell to his coat-collar; he wore a heavy moustache and a full beard. In his gait there was a singular dignity; only a man of cultivated mind and graceful68 character could move and stand as he did.
His first act on entering the room was to take from his pocket a pipe, a pouch69, a little tobacco-stopper, and a box of matches, all of which he arranged carefully on a corner of the central table. Then he drew forward a chair and seated himself.
‘Take your top-coat off;’ said Reardon.
‘Thanks, not this evening.’
‘Why the deuce not?’
‘Not this evening, thanks.’
The reason, as soon as Reardon sought for it, was obvious. Biffen had no ordinary coat beneath the other. To have referred to this fact would have been indelicate; the novelist of course understood it, and smiled, but with no mirth.
‘Let me have your Sophocles,’ were the visitor’s next words.
Reardon offered him a volume of the Oxford70 Pocket Classics.
‘I prefer the Wunder, please.’
‘It’s gone, my boy.’
‘Gone?’
‘Wanted a little cash.’
Biffen uttered a sound in which remonstrance71 and sympathy were blended.
‘I’m sorry to hear that; very sorry. Well, this must do. Now, I want to know how you scan this chorus in the “Oedipus Rex.”’
Reardon took the volume, considered, and began to read aloud with metric emphasis.
‘Choriambics, eh?’ cried the other. ‘Possible, of course; but treat them as Ionics a minore with an anacrusis, and see if they don’t go better.’
He involved himself in terms of pedantry72, and with such delight that his eyes gleamed. Having delivered a technical lecture, he began to read in illustration, producing quite a different effect from that of the rhythm as given by his friend. And the reading was by no means that of a pedant73, rather of a poet.
For half an hour the two men talked Greek metres as if they lived in a world where the only hunger known could be satisfied by grand or sweet cadences74.
They had first met in an amusing way. Not long after the publication of his book ‘On Neutral Ground’ Reardon was spending a week at Hastings. A rainy day drove him to the circulating library, and as he was looking along the shelves for something readable a voice near at hand asked the attendant if he had anything ‘by Edwin Reardon.’ The novelist turned in astonishment; that any casual mortal should inquire for his books seemed incredible. Of course there was nothing by that author in the library, and he who had asked the question walked out again. On the morrow Reardon encountered this same man at a lonely part of the shore; he looked at him, and spoke a word or two of common civility; they got into conversation, with the result that Edwin told the story of yesterday. The stranger introduced himself as Harold Biffen, an author in a small way, and a teacher whenever he could get pupils; an abusive review had interested him in Reardon’s novels, but as yet he knew nothing of them but the names.
Their tastes were found to be in many respects sympathetic, and after returning to London they saw each other frequently. Biffen was always in dire34 poverty, and lived in the oddest places; he had seen harder trials than even Reardon himself. The teaching by which he partly lived was of a kind quite unknown to the respectable tutorial world. In these days of examinations, numbers of men in a poor position — clerks chiefly — conceive a hope that by ‘passing’ this, that, or the other formal test they may open for themselves a new career. Not a few such persons nourish preposterous75 ambitions; there are warehouse76 clerks privately77 preparing (without any means or prospect78 of them) for a call to the Bar, drapers’ assistants who ‘go in’ for the preliminary examination of the College of Surgeons, and untaught men innumerable who desire to procure16 enough show of education to be eligible79 for a curacy. Candidates of this stamp frequently advertise in the newspapers for cheap tuition, or answer advertisements which are intended to appeal to them; they pay from sixpence to half-a-crown an hour — rarely as much as the latter sum. Occasionally it happened that Harold Biffen had three or four such pupils in hand, and extraordinary stories he could draw from his large experience in this sphere.
Then as to his authorship. — But shortly after the discussion of Greek metres he fell upon the subject of his literary projects, and, by no means for the first time, developed the theory on which he worked.
‘I have thought of a new way of putting it. What I really aim at is an absolute realism in the sphere of the ignobly80 decent. The field, as I understand it, is a new one; I don’t know any writer who has treated ordinary vulgar life with fidelity81 and seriousness. Zola writes deliberate tragedies; his vilest82 figures become heroic from the place they fill in a strongly imagined drama. I want to deal with the essentially83 unheroic, with the day-to-day life of that vast majority of people who are at the mercy of paltry84 circumstance. Dickens understood the possibility of such work, but his tendency to melodrama85 on the one hand, and his humour on the other, prevented him from thinking of it. An instance, now. As I came along by Regent’s Park half an hour ago a man and a girl were walking close in front of me, love-making; I passed them slowly and heard a good deal of their talk — it was part of the situation that they should pay no heed86 to a stranger’s proximity87. Now, such a love-scene as that has absolutely never been written down; it was entirely88 decent, yet vulgar to the nth power. Dickens would have made it ludicrous — a gross injustice89. Other men who deal with low-class life would perhaps have preferred idealising it — an absurdity90. For my own part, I am going to reproduce it verbatim, without one single impertinent suggestion of any point of view save that of honest reporting. The result will be something unutterably tedious. Precisely91. That is the stamp of the ignobly decent life. If it were anything but tedious it would be untrue. I speak, of course, of its effect upon the ordinary reader.’
‘I couldn’t do it,’ said Reardon.
‘Certainly you couldn’t. You — well, you are a psychological realist in the sphere of culture. You are impatient of vulgar circumstances.’
‘In a great measure because my life has been martyred by them.’
‘And for that very same reason I delight in them,’ cried Biffen. ‘You are repelled92 by what has injured you; I am attracted by it. This divergence93 is very interesting; but for that, we should have resembled each other so closely. You know that by temper we are rabid idealists, both of us.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But let me go on. I want, among other things, to insist upon the fateful power of trivial incidents. No one has yet dared to do this seriously. It has often been done in farce94, and that’s why farcical writing so often makes one melancholy95. You know my stock instances of the kind of thing I mean. There was poor Allen, who lost the most valuable opportunity of his life because he hadn’t a clean shirt to put on; and Williamson, who would probably have married that rich girl but for the grain of dust that got into his eye, and made him unable to say or do anything at the critical moment.’
Reardon burst into a roar of laughter.
‘There you are!’ cried Biffen, with friendly annoyance96. ‘You take the conventional view. If you wrote of these things you would represent them as laughable.’
‘They are laughable,’ asserted the other, ‘however serious to the persons concerned. The mere fact of grave issues in life depending on such paltry things is monstrously97 ludicrous. Life is a huge farce, and the advantage of possessing a sense of humour is that it enables one to defy fate with mocking laughter.’
‘That’s all very well, but it isn’t an original view. I am not lacking in sense of humour, but I prefer to treat these aspects of life from an impartial98 standpoint. The man who laughs takes the side of a cruel omnipotence99, if one can imagine such a thing.
I want to take no side at all; simply to say, Look, this is the kind of thing that happens.’
‘I admire your honesty, Biffen,’ said Reardon, sighing. ‘You will never sell work of this kind, yet you have the courage to go on with it because you believe in it.’
‘I don’t know; I may perhaps sell it some day.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Reardon, laying down his pipe, ‘suppose we eat a morsel100 of something. I’m rather hungry.’
In the early days of his marriage Reardon was wont101 to offer the friends who looked in on Sunday evening a substantial supper; by degrees the meal had grown simpler, until now, in the depth of his poverty, he made no pretence9 of hospitable102 entertainment. It was only because he knew that Biffen as often as not had nothing whatever to eat that he did not hesitate to offer him a slice of bread and butter and a cup of tea. They went into the back room, and over the Spartan103 fare continued to discuss aspects of fiction.
‘I shall never,’ said Biffen, ‘write anything like a dramatic scene. Such things do happen in life, but so very rarely that they are nothing to my purpose. Even when they happen, by-the-bye, it is in a shape that would be useless to the ordinary novelist; he would have to cut away this circumstance, and add that. Why? I should like to know. Such conventionalism results from stage necessities. Fiction hasn’t yet outgrown104 the influence of the stage on which it originated. Whatever a man writes FOR EFFECT is wrong and bad.’
‘Only in your view. There may surely exist such a thing as the ART of fiction.’
‘It is worked out. We must have a rest from it. You, now — the best things you have done are altogether in conflict with novelistic conventionalities. It was because that blackguard review of “On Neutral Ground” clumsily hinted this that I first thought of you with interest. No, no; let us copy life. When the man and woman are to meet for a great scene of passion, let it all be frustrated105 by one or other of them having a bad cold in the head, and so on. Let the pretty girl get a disfiguring pimple106 on her nose just before the ball at which she is going to shine. Show the numberless repulsive107 features of common decent life. Seriously, coldly; not a hint of facetiousness108, or the thing becomes different.’
About eight o’clock Reardon heard his wife’s knock at the door. On opening he saw not only Amy and the servant, the latter holding Willie in her arms, but with them Jasper Milvain.
‘I have been at Mrs Yule’s,’ Jasper explained as he came in. ‘Have you anyone here?’
‘Biffen.’
‘Ah, then we’ll discuss realism.’
‘That’s over for the evening. Greek metres also.’
‘Thank Heaven!’
The three men seated themselves with joking and laughter, and the smoke of their pipes gathered thickly in the little room. It was half an hour before Amy joined them. Tobacco was no disturbance109 to her, and she enjoyed the kind of talk that was held on these occasions; but it annoyed her that she could no longer play the hostess at a merry supper-table.
‘Why ever are you sitting in your overcoat, Mr Biffen?’ were her first words when she entered.
‘Please excuse me, Mrs Reardon. It happens to be more convenient this evening.’
She was puzzled, but a glance from her husband warned her not to pursue the subject.
Biffen always behaved to Amy with a sincerity110 of respect which had made him a favourite with her. To him, poor fellow, Reardon seemed supremely111 blessed. That a struggling man of letters should have been able to marry, and such a wife, was miraculous112 in Biffen’s eyes. A woman’s love was to him the unattainable ideal; already thirty-five years old, he had no prospect of ever being rich enough to assure himself a daily dinner; marriage was wildly out of the question. Sitting here, he found it very difficult not to gaze at Amy with uncivil persistency113. Seldom in his life had he conversed with educated women, and the sound of this clear voice was always more delightful to him than any music.
Amy took a place near to him, and talked in her most charming way of such things as she knew interested him. Biffen’s deferential114 attitude as he listened and replied was in strong contrast with the careless ease which marked Jasper Milvain. The realist would never smoke in Amy’s presence, but Jasper puffed115 jovial116 clouds even whilst she was conversing117 with him.
‘Whelpdale came to see me last night,’ remarked Milvain, presently. ‘His novel is refused on all hands. He talks of earning a living as a commission agent for some sewing-machine people.’
‘I can’t understand how his book should be positively118 refused,’ said Reardon. ‘The last wasn’t altogether a failure.’
‘Very nearly. And this one consists of nothing but a series of conversations between two people. It is really a dialogue, not a novel at all. He read me some twenty pages, and I no longer wondered that he couldn’t sell it.’
‘Oh, but it has considerable merit,’ put in Biffen. ‘The talk is remarkably119 true.’
‘But what’s the good of talk that leads to nothing?’ protested Jasper.
‘It’s a bit of real life.’
‘Yes, but it has no market value. You may write what you like, so long as people are willing to read you. Whelpdale’s a clever fellow, but he can’t hit a practical line.’
‘Like some other people I have heard of;’ said Reardon, laughing.
‘But the odd thing is, that he always strikes one as practical-minded. Don’t you feel that, Mrs Reardon?’
He and Amy talked for a few minutes, and Reardon, seemingly lost in meditation120, now and then observed them from the corner of his eye.
At eleven o’clock husband and wife were alone again.
‘You don’t mean to say,’ exclaimed Amy, ‘that Biffen has sold his coat?’
‘Or pawned121 it.’
‘But why not the overcoat?’
‘Partly, I should think, because it’s the warmer of the two; partly, perhaps, because the other would fetch more.’
‘That poor man will die of starvation, some day, Edwin.’
‘I think it not impossible.’
‘I hope you gave him something to eat?’
‘Oh yes. But I could see he didn’t like to take as much as he wanted. I don’t think of him with so much pity as I used that’s a result of suffering oneself.’
Amy set her lips and sighed.
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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flicker
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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8
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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15
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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16
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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17
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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18
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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dolorously
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| adj. 悲伤的；痛苦的；悲哀的；阴沉的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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22
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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23
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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24
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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25
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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27
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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29
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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30
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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31
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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32
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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33
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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34
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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35
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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36
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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37
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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38
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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39
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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40
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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41
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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42
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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43
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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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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45
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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46
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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47
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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48
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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50
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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51
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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52
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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53
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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54
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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55
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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56
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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57
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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58
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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59
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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61
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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63
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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64
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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65
reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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66
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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67
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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68
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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69
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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70
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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71
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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72
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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73
pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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74
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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75
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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76
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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77
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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78
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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79
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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80
ignobly
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| 卑贱地，下流地 | |
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81
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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82
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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83
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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84
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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85
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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86
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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87
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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88
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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89
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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90
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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91
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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92
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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93
divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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94
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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95
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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96
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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97
monstrously
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98
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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99
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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100
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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101
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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102
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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103
spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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104
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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105
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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106
pimple
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| n.丘疹，面泡，青春豆 | |
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107
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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108
facetiousness
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| n.滑稽 | |
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109
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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110
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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111
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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112
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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113
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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114
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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115
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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116
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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117
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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118
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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119
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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120
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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121
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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