She congratulated herself, however, that she was growing cleverer every minute. Her husband had no suspicion that his departure for the Continent was to be delayed upon one pretext7 after another until pretexts8 were no longer necessary; did he retain his interest in diplomacy9, the time would surely come when the Foreign Office would have no more of him. His good humour was unruffled. He was more kind, more captivating, than ever, and so considerate that his delicate young wife saw little of him. He sent her to bed early, and took himself off to the theatre, that “he might not keep her awake by roaming round the house; he had never gone to bed early in his life.” He made her lie down immediately after luncheon10 and remain on her couch until it was time to dress for the afternoon drive. Between half-past five and seven they had a crowded salon11. He never had luncheon or dined away from home, and, like the courteous12 soul he was, entertained formally or familiarly those whose invitations he and his wife were obliged to decline for the present. It was the dinners that, for the most part, were informal, consisting of intimate friends of his mother or the Cuttings, whom he did not feel obliged to follow up to the drawing-room. The luncheons13, or “breakfasts,” as it was the fashion to call them, were often imposing14 functions.
Of the impromptu15 afternoon salon he was even more the gay and fascinating host than at Ordham. No longer were Mrs. Cutting’s drawing-rooms the studiously select assemblies of the ante-Ordham-Bridgminster régime. True, there were many of greater social importance than she had mustered16 unaided, as well as that bevy17 of smart young American wives of English husbands so famous during the eighties, but in addition she found herself receiving all the prominent artists, authors, actors, poets, ?sthetes, musicians, and many—discoveries of her son-in-law—not yet famous but indisputably endowed. It was Ordham’s grief that Rossetti had died before he was able to do him honour, but he consoled himself by buying every picture of this consummate18 painter that found its way to the market. As they did not harmonize with the light, almost frivolous19, effect of the drawing-rooms, he had them hung in the stately entrance hall downstairs, which Mrs. Cutting had left untouched that the effect of the French rooms above might seem the more brilliant by contrast. They lit up those dim spaces with their living colours, and Ordham often sat there alone. As available Rossettis were few, and he had an almost equal admiration20 for Burne-Jones, several fine paintings of this artist shared honours with the master. They would accompany him to the Continent.
Mabel, although at first delighted to be admired by artists, especially when they told her that she looked like The Blessed Damozel, to deck herself in Pre-Raphaelite gowns designed by her mother-in-law, and sit in a Gothic chair, was grown, in this month of March, heartily21 tired of it all, and confided22 to her maid that as soon as she was well again she should send ?sthetic duds to the old-clothes man, order a trousseau from Paris, such as even she had never possessed23 before, and become the smartest woman in London. Her husband might continue to have his artists if he wanted them, and they would cut their hair, but she had been born to grace another sphere.
Moreover, she was irritably24 tired of all this talk about Wagner and that Munich prima donna; London, always on the alert for a new fad25, seemed to be obsessed26. Five weeks of Wagner at Covent Garden! She devoutly27 hoped her Jackie would not demand that she sit in the back of his box and share his raptures28. With all her little barrel-organ soul she hated Wagner; but she had not forgotten those carefully prepared appreciations29 of the courtship, and dared not retract30 them so soon after that first misguided confession31 she had worked so hard to obliterate32.
At the end of five months she had progressed far in matrimonial tactics. But what a protracted34 mental campaign it was! And she had pictured a rose garden for two light-hearted lovers! Well, there was compensation in all things; she had become clever, at least. She might have married some nice, simple, unexacting person like poppa,—a gentleman who had attended strictly35 to his own affairs,—and become one of those undeveloped little American matrons who brought letters to them, and whose husbands talked of nothing but business or football. She felt her infinite superiority to all of them, happy and bright as they were; although there were times when she longed for the mental rest which one of these fine busy young fellows, whose brains were not crowded with their ancestors, would have afforded her. And how often she longed to be natural and free. But she was a true female; she adapted herself readily enough to her lot, at times thoroughly36 enjoyed the atmosphere of intrigue37 in which she felt herself moving, sure that in the long silent tussle38 of wills, she, with the superior tact33 and finesse39 of woman, must conquer. If Ordham had been a bold masterful person, such as his brother Stanley would be one of these days when his shyness had worn off, she would have knuckled40 under as a matter of course, enjoyed with all her feminine soul the battles royal which preceded each sure defeat, while remaining “good,” and “natural,” and “above board.” But the Machiavelli in Ordham had pumped to the surface all those obscure currents of intrigue and deceit which track through every woman’s nature. It was a strange circumstance, this secret pursuit of John Ordham’s ego41, in the mysterious regions of the spirit, by two women at the same time; but they hunted on different planes and never met.
The last caller drifted out and down the stair. Ordham returned, and bending over his wife, asked her solicitously42 if she was tired.
“Not in the least!” said Mabel, brightly. All the married women she knew told her that men hated tired women. “How interesting you have made our salon, darling. Mother, can you imagine how we were ever satisfied with just smart people before?”
Mrs. Cutting shrugged43 her shoulders, but smiled indulgently. “We never receive those people in New York, but no doubt we make a great mistake. Genius ought to be recognized, and when artists and others are quite convenable44, I certainly think they should be encouraged to remain so. Besides, it helps them to meet patrons.”
Ordham concealed46 a smile and replied gently, “I feel greatly honoured that they should come to my house.” Mrs. Cutting noted47 with some amusement that he characteristically assumed that this splendid mansion48, leased, furnished, and supported by the Cutting millions, was his own. But, although she too had some time since discovered that she knew him very little, she liked him too well to feel more than a passing irritation49. In her own way she was in love with him, as mothers often are with a charming young man come suddenly into the family as the husband of an idolized child. It is the only opportunity a woman has to love a man with a passion that is not legitimately50 sexual or maternal51, but a little of both, boned of both danger and responsibilities.
“I might point out,” continued Ordham, “that we are not the first to receive the great in art, although, naturally, they prefer their own circles. But even this absurd ?sthetic movement has been of service to London society, for it has popularized art, at least, and permanently52 banished53 antimacassars. It only remains54 for some culinary genius to follow in their track to make England almost as inhabitable as Paris or Italy.”
“Don’t you love your country, Jackie darling?” asked Mabel, wistfully.
“Of course. But I was born, remember, when the Brotherhood55, unknown to the herd56, was commanding the attention of the elect, and of these my mother aspired57 to be. Naturally I became imbued58 with a love of change as well as of beauty; quite as naturally I find it necessary to gratify both out of England.”
“It is odd that you should be so different from your brothers,” interposed Mrs. Cutting, hastily.
“Oh, they are all reversions to the ancestral type, Ordhams from marrow59 to skin. My father did not like artists, and in time, my mother, being a dutiful wife, got her gowns from Worth until he died, although permitted to invite Rossetti and a few others to her big parties. And she had much political entertaining, political work generally, to do; she had little leisure to cultivate that side of London.”
“Well, I am rather glad she has followed her natural bent60 since,” said Mrs. Cutting, pleasantly. “Those nice Burne-Jones gowns she wears—or are they Rossettis? Frankly61, I can’t tell the pictures of one from the other, except that Burne-Jones’s women seem to be longer and thinner, particularly as to neck. I wonder what beauty Rossetti could have found in incipient62 goitres.”
Ordham got up suddenly and lit a cigarette some distance away. Less than a week since he had received a letter from Count Kilchberg, in which that gentleman, innocently regaling him with the gossip of Munich, mentioned that Frau von Wass had no goitre, had been shut up by her husband, suddenly jealous of somebody, no one could discover whom. The story ran that the Nachmeister had opened the eyes of the Herr Geheimrath in order to save some friend of her own from the clutches of the fair Hélène. No key was necessary for Ordham, and his conscience had given him a bad hour, although it was with a pleasant sense of relief that he realized he could do nothing. He had accordingly locked up the memory again, and was irritated with his mother-in-law for liberating63 it. But when he turned, he said carelessly:
“That was Rossetti’s chief fault in his last years, and due, no doubt, to failing eyesight and too much chloral. Talking of throats always brings to my mind the great Styr’s. That is one of her assets. It really is as like a column of ivory as mere64 flesh can be. I have taken a box for the Wagner season, and hope that both of you will go with me to every performance.”
He hoped nothing of the sort, but he knew he was quite safe in expressing himself with propriety65, and words never cost him anything.
“How wonderful five whole weeks of Wagner will be!” cried Mabel, with glittering eyes.
But Mrs. Cutting felt herself at liberty to be quite frank. “The first night; thank you very much. No doubt it will be a great sight. I understand the Prince has promised your mother to go, and of course that means the world. But I have no hesitation66 in admitting that Wagner bores me to extinction67, no doubt because I cannot appreciate him. But I was raised on composers whose characters do not talk interminably in a sort of singing register, and I am too old to be converted. You do not mind my frankness, I hope?”
“Of course not. But Mabel must come, as she loves all music, and has heard nothing but The Mikado for months.”
“Occasionally,” said Mrs. Cutting, playfully. “But for a while yet we must be inflexible68 guardians69.”
“Of course!” Ordham smiled into his wife’s eyes, but in truth was ill at ease and screwing up his courage. After all, this was not his house, and there was a point to be settled before Margarethe Styr arrived in London. He had delayed the inevitable70 discussion as long as possible, but now seemed as propitious71 a time as any; and although he did not suspect the cause, it had by no means escaped his attention that these people were at all times anxious to please him. He attributed it to the fact that he was English and they Americans, but thought it very nice of them.
He strolled over to the table again and lit another cigarette, came back to his deep chair, and turned his charming smile and large ingenuous72 eyes upon his mother-in-law.
“Did I ever mention that Countess Tann is quite a friend of mine?”
Mrs. Cutting also braced73 herself. She, too, had anticipated this crisis. “I think we spoke74 of her the first time we met again in London,” she answered vaguely75. “But you are such a diplomat5! I should hardly know the name of a single one of your London acquaintance if they did not come to the house. I don’t think you have ever mentioned any of your Continental76 friends. I doubt”—with a brilliant smile—“if your left hand is on bowing terms with your right.”
“How can you say such a thing? How very odd! It seems to me that I must often have spoken of Countess Tann—she was so very hospitable77 to me in Munich. I met her at Neuschwanstein, where we both were guests of that strangest of all strange mortals, Ludwig of Bavaria. Otherwise, I might not have met her at all, for although Munich society is at her feet, she goes about very little. No doubt she opened her doors to me because we are both such good friends of your own good friend, Princess Nachmeister, but she certainly showed me marked hospitality, and I shall be glad to return it here in London.”
There was an ominous78 silence. Mrs. Cutting fanned herself vehemently79, a bright spot in either cheek. Ordham, his nervousness conquered, looked at her steadily80. Mabel twisted the ears of LaLa until he squealed81 and ran off in dudgeon.
Mrs. Cutting spoke at last. “Do you recall any of our conversation on the subject of—a—Countess Tann?”
“Was anything in particular said? I recall the fact of a conversation, nothing more.”
“I think I expressed my disapproval82 of that sort of people. On the stage, of course, it doesn’t matter; but to ask them under one’s roof—that is quite another question. Of course, no one knows better than yourself, dear John, that a man has many acquaintances his family cannot receive.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” he said wonderingly. “You spoke just now of feeling it a duty to encourage artists by social recognition. You surely have no objection to the stage—above all, to the operatic stage?”
“Oh, not at all! But I have to this Countess Tann.” Mrs. Cutting, driven to a defence of her principles, was the woman to fling social diplomatics to the winds.
“What objections have you to Countess Tann?”
“It is not possible that you have not heard all the—gossip about that woman?”
“I have heard gossip of every woman I have ever heard discussed at all. Gossip is the relaxation83 of overburdened minds, and most minds are burdened one way or another. I cannot understand your attitude to Countess Tann, when you receive—” and he mentioned the names of several women notorious for more than beauty and fashion.
Mrs. Cutting flushed. “They go everywhere,” she said tartly84. “Nevertheless, I have received them only to please your mother; it has been under protest, even although nothing against them is proved. In time I shall tactfully weed them out.”
“There are no proofs against Countess Tann.”
“I am afraid proofs could easily be had. You were in the next room only this afternoon when Mr. Levering entertained a group of us, not for the first time, with reminiscences of Margaret Hill. That, he asserts, is her real name, and he not only saw her year in and out in New York, but knew her personally.”
“Levering is one of those rheumatic old beaux that sit in club windows and manufacture scandal. There is no wheat in his chaff85. And what a cur to run about prejudicing people against a woman who has no man to defend her, a woman so great, for that matter, that it is a presumption86 to gossip about her at all! I shall cut him.”
“Dear me, I had no idea you could bring yourself to do anything so direct and undiplomatic!” Mrs. Cutting laughed, but she was growing angry. “And do remember that he is not only a very old friend of mine, but a power even here in London, where he has come every season for twenty years.”
“I have nothing to fear from Levering,” replied Ordham, coldly. “He is not even a second-rate Englishman, and these transplanted American men that have nothing better to do than invent or peddle87 racy gossip in order to make sure of being asked every night to meet a title or two at dinner are not taken very seriously by us.”
Mrs. Cutting made no reply for a moment. She realized that her son-in-law rude must be very much in earnest. Her American soul rose in wrath88, but she kept Mabel’s happiness steadily before her, and finally said, in her usual calm even tones: “I am afraid it is all true. We won’t discuss poor old Levering. I have heard of Styr from other sources, and although it distresses89 me greatly to refuse you anything you wish, I fear I cannot receive her under my roof.”
“Granting that these stories are true, what difference does it make?” No tones could be more even, more mellifluous90, than Ordham’s. “She is a great artist, many hold the greatest living. Shall we be more provincial91 than Munich, which receives the artist with no reference to what she may have been ten years ago, on the other side of the globe?”
“Why should artists be treated as if they were different from ordinary mortals?”
“Because they are.”
Mrs. Cutting set her lips in a straight white line. “I recognize only one code of morals. We Americans are brought up on splendid old-fashioned principles. Nor do I recall anything in the Bible that might be construed92 as exempting93 genius from the code that is necessary to preserve society from anarchy94.”
Mabel interposed hurriedly. She knew that on certain points her mother was rigid95, and she, too, regarded people that misbehaved themselves with shocked disapproval. But it was too soon to put her husband on the defensive96. “Mother dear,” she said, in her clear little voice, “don’t you think you might relax your rule for once, as Countess Tann is a friend of Jackie’s? Besides, perhaps it is our duty to encourage these people when they are trying to do right. Both Princess Nachmeister and Mr. Levering say that her life has been exemplary in Munich. If we snubbed her, we might drive her to the bad again.”
As she concluded her little effort she looked eagerly at her husband, expecting a flash of gratitude97 from his expressive98 eyes, and not only for coming to his rescue, but for refraining from the common jealousy99 of wives. But Ordham averted100 his gaze, conscious of a still more intense irritation. Mabel was not clever enough to play her part in daily intercourse101, little as she suspected it; and there were times when she quite forgot the r?le she now knew it was necessary to act in order to reinspire her husband with the belief that he had married the ideal woman. Few women can spend their lives in full dress. In humbler walks of life than Mabel’s, the wife exhibits herself to her husband in curl papers and untidy wrappers. Mabel’s toilettes would have been perfect on a desert island had her trunks been washed ashore102, but to let her mind run down at the heels was a temptation not to be resisted, now and again, for had she not bagged her quarry103? And although she schemed to please her husband, adopted all the wise advice of Lady Pat, crossing him in nothing and surrounding him with diversions, still would she read no more books, still would she chatter104; and she avoided “clever” men and women as she would the plague. To know how to manage a man was cleverness enough; what she did not know was that deft105 management, while it may achieve certain results, is not always redolent of charm. Ordham avoided her by the aid of every device his fertile brain could suggest, for he dreaded106 the moment when self-restraint would snap and betray him into wounding the poor little thing. She might be a silly child, but he appreciated that she loved him devotedly108. This uxorious109 affection, however, was irritating him in more ways than one. Since their return to town hardly a day had passed that she had not given him a present. Extravagant110 and wealthy, it delighted her to shower costly111 “trifles” on her husband; his rooms were littered with superb and superfluous112 baubles113. The new cigarette case in his pocket was of gold incrusted with jewels, the old silver necessaries of his dressing-table had been replaced with gold; he had now five watches, eight cigarette cases and match boxes, fourteen ash trays, three sets of white pearls of the first water and one of black, more cuff114 links than he pretended to count, four sets of furnishings for his writing table, one of gold, one of Russian enamel115, one of Dresden china, and one of antique silver; and so on, ad infinitum. Many of these precious objects were inscribed116 “Jackie.”
Only that morning it had occurred to him that all this stuff represented a sum far in excess of the wretched thousand pounds which had caused him so much torment117 and debasement of spirit, and he had felt not only vexed118 at the senseless extravagance, but sick of saying “Thank you”; the constant repetition of which phrase creates in time a sense of obligation fatal both in love and friendship. Feeling that if called upon once more to tell her, upon her daily return from Bond Street, that she was the most marvellous and the most generous creature in the world, he should disgrace himself, he had announced with playful decision that she must waste no more money on him; he could not accustom119 himself all at once to such extravagance, had a vague sense of defrauding120 the poor—these were the only excuses he could think of. Mabel, who had heard of his princely expenditures121 in Paris on an income of ￡500 a year, was astonished, but inferred that he still felt the difference in their fortunes, and had too much humour to return her presents with the money she had given him. But nothing had been further from Jackie’s mind than this delicate hair-splitting. The ￡200,000 he regarded as a right and proper marriage settlement, not as a present; he had never mentioned the subject to his wife. And whereas nobody liked making presents better than himself, he made appropriate ones; and if he gave none to Mabel, it was because he could think of nothing she did not possess already.
So he avoided her eyes when she flew to his relief, left his seat once more, and with his back to them ground his teeth. He had himself well in hand, but he was still too young to have at his absolute command that gay and impenetrable mask, that perfect suavity122 of manner, for which he is celebrated123 to-day. Nevertheless, he always rallied his unevenly124 developed gifts in such crises as these.
“I don’t think it is worth while to discuss the question from an ethical125 standpoint,” he said in a moment, turning to his wife with a smile on his lips and none in his eyes. “Countess Tann, admitting that she ever dwelt without the pale, will not be driven back by any act of ours. She has the strongest character of any person I have ever known. The question is merely this: I feel under certain obligations of hospitality to her which I should be glad to discharge, and she is a great artist who gives the world far more than it can ever give her in return. Granting that she is this Margaret Hill of Levering’s, society is now too deeply in her debt to consider anything but the interest it must pay as long as she remains in the position to demand it.”
“I quite agree with you—up to a certain point.” Mrs. Cutting had almost visibly choked over the largest doses of British insolence126 she had ever been called upon to swallow, but she forced her lips to smile. “I am quite willing to take a box at the opera, show myself often, and lend it to my friends at other times—there are so many Americans in London just now. I am not as young and as modern as you are, but at least I should never dream of boycotting127 a stage artist in her own sphere; I am as ready as any one to acknowledge the debt of the ordinary mortal to genius. And nothing has ever distressed128 me more than the dreadful tales of gifted people dying in garrets because a selfish world would not pause to listen to them. But never, willingly at least, have I received under my roof a woman of blemished129 reputation. My mother and my grandmother were both leaders of society in New York, and that was their inflexible rule; I was brought up on it. As you English people are so much more—charitable, let us call it—I have endeavoured to make up my mind to believe no gossip unproven by the divorce courts; but really, some things are a bit too flagrant, and one professional beauty, at least, who was here this afternoon will never come again by invitation. And if I decline to receive a woman who has fairly blossomed in the sunshine of royalty130, and who is well born and bred, I can hardly be expected to receive a creature that began life as a social outcast. I do not assert anything so foolish, of course,” she added hastily, “as that we have not a certain small percentage of wicked and foolish women in American society. I am merely emphasizing the standard of the country, and I for one shall continue to uphold it as a matter both of principle and inclination131.”
“Both are highly commendable132, but, it strikes me, a trifle provincial and inconvenient133. In a new country I can understand that you must draw hard and fast lines, but now that you have come to live among people that are quite sure of themselves, why not emulate134 their independence? It has struck me more than once since I have had the pleasure of knowing so many Americans, that we have more independence, freedom, under our old-fashioned monarchy135, than you under a form of government where those words may be worn meaningless with too constant iteration; you seem to have an idea that their antithesis136 is aristocratic.”
“I don’t think you see my point.” Mrs. Cutting’s tones were so even that they were monotonous137, and she fixed138 her eyes on her fan. “You English aristocrats139 indulge in the fiction that you are above all laws, are a law unto yourselves. You are mental and moral anarchists140. With us it is quite different. It may be because we are new, but one thing is quite positive: our standards are higher than yours, and they are fixed. We are as free of mind as you are, but we don’t choose to use our freedom in the same way. We reverence141 the laws we have accepted from the highest authority, because they are right and proper laws, because they conduce to purity of conduct and true happiness. But you—you English might exist on a planet of your own. And yet you are a mass of contradictions. Mr. Wilde was lamenting143 to-day, for the fortieth time, of British provincialism, respectability, philistinism. Others make the same lament142. I have seen little of it myself. You—I am talking of your class, of course,—use those characteristics as an excuse when it happens to be convenient. To be just, I have not the slightest doubt that most of the women I meet are faithful wives, but it is only because the reverse does not appeal to them; they would admit, if pushed to the wall, that the laws made to govern the conduct of common mortals do not apply to them—certainly not! But if their anarchy—or, shall we say, their insolence?—does not take that form, it does some other. The only absolutely well-regulated women, according to the American standard, that I have met in England, are, it would seem, survivals from your middle class.”
“It is irresistible144, dear Mrs. Cutting, to ask why, since you admire your own country and despise ours, you have come to live among us?”
Mrs. Cutting raised her cold angry eyes and met the cold impassive eyes opposite. Even had she been less fond of him, the utter absence of insolence in his voice and face, the repose145 and detachment of his manner, would have compelled her admiration. He continued with a smile: “It would be a genuine deprivation146 were you to leave us in a fit of disgust, but I am afraid you will, one of these days, unless you make up your mind to take us as we are, swallow us whole.”
“It has occurred to me once or twice of late that I may return to New York.” She paused a moment and then continued deliberately147: “It is an intensely disagreeable and humiliating conclusion to have come to, but I believe that I am a snob148. It annoys me the more as I have no justification149, like so many of these Americans at present going the pace in London, wild with delight at being able to address peers of the realm as ‘Bertie’ and ‘Billy.’ Even the founder150 of my family in America helped to model its social structure. What is the secret of this fascination151 of England for the well-born of the United States? Perhaps its mere picturesque152 contrast to our republican institutions, architecture, customs. Perhaps some harking back of the blood. Perhaps it is an unconscious attempt to live the literature of our childhood, where all the fascinating characters were kings and queens, lords and ladies. Perhaps the sleepless153 American instinct to go straight to the top, that ‘the best is none too good for us,’ as our slang so patly expresses it. Perhaps because you have reached the superlative, while we are still in the comparative degree. No doubt, however, the reason, or all the reasons, are given the complete and final expression in that one hideous154 little word, ‘snob.’?”
Ordham had never felt so much respect and liking155 for his mother-in-law. His eyes softened156 and he said solicitously: “I hope you are not unhappy here. Surely no American has ever been so well treated.”
“Ah! There is another point. One must live in, not merely visit, England, to discover that its reasoning runs something like this: ‘We do not say, of course, that you are not as good as we are—pray, what does that matter? But you are different, and being different, of course you are not quite as good.’?”
Ordham laughed heartily. “I never heard it so cleverly put!” The warmth in his voice and eyes brought the colour back to Mrs. Cutting’s face, the animation157 to her glance. “Indeed, you must never leave us! We should miss you too dreadfully. And you are one of us—really!—however some stupid people may regard the majority of Americans. Is not my mother devoted107 to you?”
“How devoted do you think Lady Bridgminster could be to any one?”
“Oh, I was not thinking of affection. She never pretends to much of that. But with whom else is she so intimate?—and at least you have never found her rude.”
“Bad manners are not one of her fads158, as they are with a good many I could mention; and, beyond all question, I like her better than any woman in London, for, in her way, she is genuine; she is, in fact, too arrogant159 to be anything else. But that she regards me wholly as her equal—not for a moment do I believe anything of the sort. And the position is beginning to gall160 me.”
“Momma!” Mabel had listened to this conversation appalled161, almost breathless. “Surely, you would not go away and leave me?”
“Not for a while yet, darling—certainly not! But I feel that the time will come when we shall have to satisfy ourselves with a yearly interchange of visits.” She looked at Ordham as if bracing162 herself again. “Let us have it out. We like each other too well to quarrel, and it is better to come to a complete understanding now than to be continually bringing up unpleasant subjects. Nothing disgusts me more than this English worship of what you call personality. To receive people that have forfeited163 their social rights merely because they have some remarkable164 personal charm, have painted a picture, or written a book, is putting a premium165 upon libertinage166, swells167 the ‘artistic’ hordes168 that hardly dare be virtuous169 lest they be thought second-rate. Nor do I in the least believe in the sincerity170 of all this kow-towing to talent. You are a great and bored people, you must have fads; that is all there is to it!”
“Does all that mean you will not receive Countess Tann?” He stood up, looking appealingly at his mother-in-law, whom he liked better for sticking to her little guns, inconvenient as they were to himself. He drew his arms together, after his fashion when nervous. “Are you really unrelenting? Will you not call on Countess Tann, and ask her to come here? I shall feel very awkward if you do not. My mother has promised to be nice to her, but I am not living in her house.”
“Do, mother,” whispered Mabel.
But on this point Mrs. Cutting was pure steel, although she found it no easy matter to resist Ordham when he deigned171 to coax172. “No—I am desperately173 sorry, but I cannot. You must not ask it of me. If I forced myself to take that woman by the hand, I should lose my self-control and be rude to her. But, indeed, to touch her would be a physical as well as a moral impossibility. I am very sorry. I hate to deny you anything.”
She swept out of the room hastily, and Mabel looked apprehensively174 at her husband, who, for the fourth time, was striking a match with his back to her.
“Jackie!”
Jackie gritted175 his teeth, but answered politely, “Well, Mabel?”
“Are you angry with me? It is too severe of mother.”
“Of course not. How can you say such a thing?”
“Well, you have a right to be. But perhaps I can talk mother over.”
“I am sure you cannot. But it doesn’t matter. I fancy Countess Tann will understand—she is an American! Besides, no doubt we have wasted a lot of talk and temper over nothing. She will be much too busy for society. Your mother might have sacrificed her principles by leaving a card. A Wagner prima donna who is to sing eighteen times in five weeks, besides rehearsing with a scratch company, would no doubt herself spare you the indignity176 of meeting a woman who not only has been as much gossiped about as some eight or ten that were here to-day, but who hails from the ranks—”
“Jackie! Please don’t talk as if we were dreadful snobs177.”
“On the contrary, I think your mother did herself an injustice178. What more natural than to prefer England to America? Besides, she has the courage of her opinions—I think nobody, certainly not Americans, appreciates that sort of courage as much as the English. By the way, you will not mind if I dine with my mother to-night? I have rather neglected her.”
“Your mother dines out every night of her life! Do you really mean that you will leave me if I beg you not to?”
“Oh, I am sure you will not do that—you are quite the most charmingly unselfish person in the world.”
Once more he watched those great crystal tears well up and over. The sight fascinated him as a phenomenon, but he too was pure steel. Mabel saw the long line of his jaw179 grow longer and harder under the fine firm flesh, stared into the eyes that were veiled to conceal45 their glitter. He felt immeasurably older than this poor silly child to whom, under God knew what delusion180, he had fastened himself for life, and he was still determined181 to treat her with what kindness and consideration he could command. He took out his handkerchief and dried her eyes. “I am so sorry! But you must let me play the dutiful son once in a while. Suppose you take your dinner in bed. You will feel that much more refreshed to-morrow.”
“Will you come home early?” sobbed182 Mabel.
“Of course!”
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1
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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3
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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4
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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5
diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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10
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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12
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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13
luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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14
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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15
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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16
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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17
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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18
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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19
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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20
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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21
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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22
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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23
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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24
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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25
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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26
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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28
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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appreciations
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| n.欣赏( appreciation的名词复数 )；感激；评定；（尤指土地或财产的）增值 | |
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30
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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31
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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32
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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33
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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34
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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35
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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37
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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38
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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39
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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40
knuckled
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| v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的过去式和过去分词 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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41
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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42
solicitously
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| adv.热心地，热切地 | |
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43
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
convenable
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| 可召集的，可召唤的 | |
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45
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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46
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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47
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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48
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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49
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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50
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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51
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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52
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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53
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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55
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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56
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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57
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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59
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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60
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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61
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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62
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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63
liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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64
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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65
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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66
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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67
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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68
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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69
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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70
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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71
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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72
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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73
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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74
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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75
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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76
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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77
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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78
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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80
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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81
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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83
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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84
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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85
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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86
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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87
peddle
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| vt.(沿街)叫卖，兜售；宣传，散播 | |
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88
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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89
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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90
mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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91
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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92
construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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93
exempting
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的现在分词 ) | |
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94
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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95
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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96
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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97
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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98
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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99
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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100
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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101
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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102
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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103
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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104
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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105
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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106
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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107
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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108
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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109
uxorious
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| adj.宠爱妻子的 | |
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110
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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111
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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112
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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113
baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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114
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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115
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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116
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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117
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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118
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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119
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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120
defrauding
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的现在分词 ) | |
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121
expenditures
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| n.花费( expenditure的名词复数 )；使用；（尤指金钱的）支出额；（精力、时间、材料等的）耗费 | |
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122
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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123
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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124
unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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125
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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boycotting
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| 抵制，拒绝参加( boycott的现在分词 ) | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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blemished
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| v.有损…的完美，玷污( blemish的过去式 ) | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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131
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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133
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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134
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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135
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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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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139
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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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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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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libertinage
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| n.放荡，自由观点 | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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169
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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170
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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171
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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175
gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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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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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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181
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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182
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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