Arriving thus in Brook18 Street both with the best intentions and with a margin19 consciously left for some primary awkwardness, he found his burden, to his great relief, unexpectedly light. The awkwardness involved in the responsibility so newly and so ingeniously traced for him turned round on the spot to present him another face. This was simply the face of his old impression, which he now fully20 recovered—the impression that American girls, when, rare case, they had the attraction of Milly, were clearly the easiest people in the world. Had what had happened been that this specimen21 of the class was from the first so committed to ease that nothing subsequent could ever make her difficult? That affected22 him now as still more probable than on the occasion of the hour or two lately passed with her in Kate's society. Milly Theale had recognised no complication, to Densher's view, while bringing him, with his companion, from the National Gallery and entertaining them at luncheon23; it was therefore scarce supposable that complications had become so soon too much for her. His pretext24 for presenting himself was fortunately of the best and simplest; the least he could decently do, given their happy acquaintance, was to call with an enquiry after learning that she had been prevented by illness from meeting him at dinner. And then there was the beautiful accident of her other demonstration25; he must at any rate have given a sign as a sequel to the hospitality he had shared with Kate. Well, he was giving one now—such as it was; he was finding her, to begin with, accessible, and very naturally and prettily26 glad to see him. He had come, after luncheon, early, though not so early but that she might already be out if she were well enough; and she was well enough and yet was still at home. He had an inner glimpse, with this, of the comment Kate would have made on it; it wasn't absent from his thought that Milly would have been at home by her account because expecting, after a talk with Mrs. Stringham, that a certain person might turn up. He even—so pleasantly did things go—enjoyed freedom of mind to welcome, on that supposition, a fresh sign of the beautiful hypocrisy27 of women. He went so far as to enjoy believing the girl might have stayed in for him; it helped him to enjoy her behaving as if she hadn't. She expressed, that is, exactly the right degree of surprise; she didn't a bit overdo28 it: the lesson of which was, perceptibly, that, so far as his late lights had opened the door to any want of the natural in their meetings, he might trust her to take care of it for him as well as for herself. She had begun this, admirably, on his entrance, with her turning away from the table at which she had apparently29 been engaged in letter-writing; it was the very possibility of his betraying a concern for her as one of the afflicted30 that she had within the first minute conjured31 away. She was never, never—did he understand?—to be one of the afflicted for him; and the manner in which he understood it, something of the answering pleasure that he couldn't help knowing he showed, constituted, he was very soon after to acknowledge, something like a start for intimacy32. When things like that could pass people had in truth to be equally conscious of a relation. It soon made one, at all events, when it didn't find one made. She had let him ask—there had been time for that, his allusion33 to her friend's explanatory arrival at Lancaster Gate without her being inevitable34; but she had blown away, and quite as much with the look in her eyes as with the smile on her lips, every ground for anxiety and every chance for insistence35. How was she?—why she was as he thus saw her and as she had reasons of her own, nobody else's business, for desiring to appear. Kate's account of her as too proud for pity, as fiercely shy about so personal a secret, came back to him; so that he rejoiced he could take a hint, especially when he wanted to. The question the girl had quickly disposed of—"Oh it was nothing: I'm all right, thank you!"—was one he was glad enough to be able to banish36. It wasn't at all, in spite of the appeal Kate had made to him on it, his affair; for his interest had been invoked37 in the name of compassion38, and the name of compassion was exactly what he felt himself at the end of two minutes forbidden so much as to whisper. He had been sent to see her in order to be sorry for her, and how sorry he might be, quite privately39, he was yet to make out. Didn't that signify, however, almost not at all?—inasmuch as, whatever his upshot, he was never to give her a glimpse of it. Thus the ground was unexpectedly cleared; though it was not till a slightly longer time had passed that he read clear, at first with amusement and then with a strange shade of respect, what had most operated. Extraordinarily40, quite amazingly, he began to see that if his pity hadn't had to yield to still other things it would have had to yield quite definitely to her own. That was the way the case had turned round: he had made his visit to be sorry for her, but he would repeat it—if he did repeat it—in order that she might be sorry for him. His situation made him, she judged—when once one liked him—a subject for that degree of tenderness: he felt this judgement in her, and felt it as something he should really, in decency41, in dignity, in common honesty, have very soon to reckon with.
Odd enough was it certainly that the question originally before him, the question placed there by Kate, should so of a sudden find itself quite dislodged by another. This other, it was easy to see, came straight up with the fact of her beautiful delusion42 and her wasted charity; the whole thing preparing for him as pretty a case of conscience as he could have desired, and one at the prospect43 of which he was already wincing44. If he was interesting it was because he was unhappy; and if he was unhappy it was because his passion for Kate had spent itself in vain; and if Kate was indifferent, inexorable, it was because she had left Milly in no doubt of it. That above all was what came up for him—how clear an impression of this attitude, how definite an account of his own failure, Kate must have given her friend. His immediate45 quarter of an hour there with the girl lighted up for him almost luridly46 such an inference; it was almost as if the other party to their remarkable47 understanding had been with them as they talked, had been hovering48 about, had dropped in to look after her work. The value of the work affected him as different from the moment he saw it so expressed in poor Milly. Since it was false that he wasn't loved, so his right was quite quenched49 to figure on that ground as important; and if he didn't look out he should find himself appreciating in a way quite at odds50 with straightness the good faith of Milly's benevolence51. There was the place for scruples52; there the need absolutely to mind what he was about. If it wasn't proper for him to enjoy consideration on a perfectly false footing, where was the guarantee that, if he kept on, he mightn't soon himself pretend to the grievance53 in order not to miss the sweet? Consideration—from a charming girl—was soothing54 on whatever theory; and it didn't take him far to remember that he had himself as yet done nothing deceptive55. It was Kate's description of him, his defeated state, it was none of his own; his responsibility would begin, as he might say, only with acting56 it out. The sharp point was, however, in the difference between acting and not acting: this difference in fact it was that made the case of conscience. He saw it with a certain alarm rise before him that everything was acting that was not speaking the particular word. "If you like me because you think she doesn't, it isn't a bit true: she does like me awfully57!"—that would have been the particular word; which there were at the same time but too palpably such difficulties about his uttering. Wouldn't it be virtually as indelicate to challenge her as to leave her deluded58?—and this quite apart from the exposure, so to speak, of Kate, as to whom it would constitute a kind of betrayal. Kate's design was something so extraordinarily special to Kate that he felt himself shrink from the complications involved in judging it. Not to give away the woman one loved, but to back her up in her mistakes—once they had gone a certain length—that was perhaps chief among the inevitabilities of the abjection59 of love. Loyalty60 was of course supremely61 prescribed in presence of any design on her part, however roundabout, to do one nothing but good.
Densher had quite to steady himself not to be awestruck at the immensity of the good his own friend must on all this evidence have wanted to do him. Of one thing indeed meanwhile he was sure: Milly Theale wouldn't herself precipitate62 his necessity of intervention63. She would absolutely never say to him: "Is it so impossible she shall ever care for you seriously?"—without which nothing could well be less delicate than for him aggressively to set her right. Kate would be free to do that if Kate, in some prudence64, some contrition65, for some better reason in fine, should revise her plan; but he asked himself what, failing this, he could do that wouldn't be after all more gross than doing nothing. This brought him round again to the acceptance of the fact that the poor girl liked him. She put it, for reasons of her own, on a simple, a beautiful ground, a ground that already supplied her with the pretext she required. The ground was there, that is, in the impression she had received, retained, cherished; the pretext, over and above it, was the pretext for acting on it. That she now believed as she did made her sure at last that she might act; so that what Densher therefore would have struck at would be the root, in her soul, of a pure pleasure. It positively lifted its head and flowered, this pure pleasure, while the young man now sat with her, and there were things she seemed to say that took the words out of his mouth. These were not all the things she did say; they were rather what such things meant in the light of what he knew. Her warning him for instance off the question of how she was, the quick brave little art with which she did that, represented to his fancy a truth she didn't utter. "I'm well for you—that's all you have to do with or need trouble about: I shall never be anything so horrid66 as ill for you. So there you are; worry about me, spare me, please, as little as you can. Don't be afraid, in short, to ignore my 'interesting' side. It isn't, you see, even now while you sit here, that there aren't lots of others. Only do them justice and we shall get on beautifully." This was what was folded finely up in her talk—all quite ostensibly about her impressions and her intentions. She tried to put Densher again on his American doings, but he wouldn't have that to-day. As he thought of the way in which, the other afternoon, before Kate, he had sat complacently67 "jawing," he accused himself of excess, of having overdone68 it, having made—at least apparently—more of a "set" at their entertainer than he was at all events then intending. He turned the tables, drawing her out about London, about her vision of life there, and only too glad to treat her as a person with whom he could easily have other topics than her aches and pains. He spoke69 to her above all of the evidence offered him at Lancaster Gate that she had come but to conquer; and when she had met this with full and gay assent—"How could I help being the feature of the season, the what-do-you-call-it, the theme of every tongue?"—they fraternised freely over all that had come and gone for each since their interrupted encounter in New York.
At the same time, while many things in quick succession came up for them, came up in particular for Densher, nothing perhaps was just so sharp as the odd influence of their present conditions on their view of their past ones. It was as if they hadn't known how "thick" they had originally become, as if, in a manner, they had really fallen to remembrance of more passages of intimacy than there had in fact at the time quite been room for. They were in a relation now so complicated, whether by what they said or by what they didn't say, that it might have been seeking to justify70 its speedy growth by reaching back to one of those fabulous71 periods in which prosperous states place their beginnings. He recalled what had been said at Mrs. Lowder's about the steps and stages, in people's careers, that absence caused one to miss, and about the resulting frequent sense of meeting them further on; which, with some other matters also recalled, he took occasion to communicate to Milly. The matters he couldn't mention mingled72 themselves with those he did; so that it would doubtless have been hard to say which of the two groups now played most of a part. He was kept face to face with this young lady by a force absolutely resident in their situation and operating, for his nerves, with the swiftness of the forces commonly regarded by sensitive persons as beyond their control. The current thus determined73 had positively become for him, by the time he had been ten minutes in the room, something that, but for the absurdity74 of comparing the very small with the very great, he would freely have likened to the rapids of Niagara. An uncriticised acquaintance between a clever young man and a responsive young woman could do nothing more, at the most, than go, and his actual experiment went and went and went. Nothing probably so conduced to make it go as the marked circumstance that they had spoken all the while not a word about Kate; and this in spite of the fact that, if it were a question for them of what had occurred in the past weeks, nothing had occurred comparable to Kate's predominance. Densher had but the night before appealed to her for instruction as to what he must do about her, but he fairly winced75 to find how little this came to. She had foretold76 him of course how little; but it was a truth that looked different when shown him by Milly. It proved to him that the latter had in fact been dealt with, but it produced in him the thought that Kate might perhaps again conveniently be questioned. He would have liked to speak to her before going further—to make sure she really meant him to succeed quite so much. With all the difference that, as we say, came up for him, it came up afresh, naturally, that he might make his visit brief and never renew it; yet the strangest thing of all was that the argument against that issue would have sprung precisely77 from the beautiful little eloquence78 involved in Milly's avoidances.
Precipitate these well might be, since they emphasised the fact that she was proceeding79 in the sense of the assurances she had taken. Over the latter she had visibly not hesitated, for hadn't they had the merit of giving her a chance? Densher quite saw her, felt her take it; the chance, neither more nor less, of help rendered him according to her freedom. It was what Kate had left her with: "Listen to him, I? Never! So do as you like." What Milly "liked" was to do, it thus appeared, as she was doing: our young man's glimpse of which was just what would have been for him not less a glimpse of the peculiar80 brutality81 of shaking her off. The choice exhaled82 its shy fragrance83 of heroism84, for it was not aided by any question of parting with Kate. She would be charming to Kate as well as to Kate's adorer; she would incur85 whatever pain could dwell for her in the sight—should she continue to be exposed to the sight—of the adorer thrown with the adored. It wouldn't really have taken much more to make him wonder if he hadn't before him one of those rare cases of exaltation—food for fiction, food for poetry—in which a man's fortune with the woman who doesn't care for him is positively promoted by the woman who does. It was as if Milly had said to herself: "Well, he can at least meet her in my society, if that's anything to him; so that my line can only be to make my society attractive." She certainly couldn't have made a different impression if she had so reasoned. All of which, none the less, didn't prevent his soon enough saying to her, quite as if she were to be whirled into space: "And now, then, what becomes of you? Do you begin to rush about on visits to country-houses?"
She disowned the idea with a headshake that, put on what face she would, couldn't help betraying to him something of her suppressed view of the possibility—ever, ever perhaps—of any such proceedings86. They weren't at any rate for her now. "Dear no. We go abroad for a few weeks somewhere of high air. That has been before us for many days; we've only been kept on by last necessities here. However, everything's done and the wind's in our sails."
She looked ever so vague; then as if to correct it: "Oh when the wind turns. And what do you do with your summer?"
"Ah I spend it in sordid88 toil89. I drench90 it with mercenary ink. My work in your country counts for play as well. You see what's thought of the pleasure your country can give. My holiday's over."
"I'm sorry you had to take it," said Milly, "at such a different time from ours. If you could but have worked while we've been working—"
"I might be playing while you play? Oh the distinction isn't so great with me. There's a little of each for me, of work and of play, in either. But you and Mrs. Stringham, with Miss Croy and Mrs. Lowder—you all," he went on, "have been given up, like navvies or niggers, to real physical toil. Your rest is something you've earned and you need. My labour's comparatively light."
"Very true," she smiled; "but all the same I like mine."
"It doesn't leave you 'done'?"
"Not a bit. I don't get tired when I'm interested. Oh I could go far."
He bethought himself. "Then why don't you?—since you've got here, as I learn, the whole place in your pocket."
"Well, it's a kind of economy—I'm saving things up. I've enjoyed so what you speak of—though your account of it's fantastic—that I'm watching over its future, that I can't help being anxious and careful. I want—in the interest itself of what I've had and may still have—not to make stupid mistakes. The way not to make them is to get off again to a distance and see the situation from there. I shall keep it fresh," she wound up as if herself rather pleased with the ingenuity91 of her statement—"I shall keep it fresh, by that prudence, for my return."
"Ah then you will return? Can you promise one that?"
Her face fairly lighted at his asking for a promise; but she made as if bargaining a little. "Isn't London rather awful in winter?"
He had been going to ask her if she meant for the invalid92; but he checked the infelicity of this and took the enquiry as referring to social life. "No—I like it, with one thing and another; it's less of a mob than later on; and it would have for us the merit—should you come here then—that we should probably see more of you. So do reappear for us—if it isn't a question of climate."
She looked at that a little graver. "If what isn't a question—?"
"Why the determination of your movements. You spoke just now of going somewhere for that."
"For better air?"—she remembered. "Oh yes, one certainly wants to get out of London in August."
"Rather, of course!"—he fully understood. "Though I'm glad you've hung on long enough for me to catch you. Try us at any rate," he continued, "once more."
"Whom do you mean by 'us'?" she presently asked.
It pulled him up an instant—representing, as he saw it might have seemed, an allusion to himself as conjoined with Kate, whom he was proposing not to mention any more than his hostess did. But the issue was easy. "I mean all of us together, every one you'll find ready to surround you with sympathy."
It made her, none the less, in her odd charming way, challenge him afresh. "Why do you say sympathy?"
"Well, it's doubtless a pale word. What we shall feel for you will be much nearer worship."
"As near then as you like!" With which at last Kate's name was sounded. "The people I'd most come back for are the people you know. I'd do it for Mrs. Lowder, who has been beautifully kind to me."
"So she has to me," said Densher. "I feel," he added as she at first answered nothing, "that, quite contrary to anything I originally expected, I've made a good friend of her."
"I didn't expect it either—its turning out as it has. But I did," said Milly, "with Kate. I shall come back for her too. I'd do anything"—she kept it up—"for Kate."
Looking at him as with conscious clearness while she spoke, she might for the moment have effectively laid a trap for whatever remains93 of the ideal straightness in him were still able to pull themselves together and operate. He was afterwards to say to himself that something had at that moment hung for him by a hair. "Oh I know what one would do for Kate!"—it had hung for him by a hair to break out with that, which he felt he had really been kept from by an element in his consciousness stronger still. The proof of the truth in question was precisely in his silence; resisting the impulse to break out was what he was doing for Kate. This at the time moreover came and went quickly enough; he was trying the next minute but to make Milly's allusion easy for herself. "Of course I know what friends you are—and of course I understand," he permitted himself to add, "any amount of devotion to a person so charming. That's the good turn then she'll do us all—I mean her working for your return."
"Oh you don't know," said Milly, "how much I'm really on her hands."
He could but accept the appearance of wondering how much he might show he knew. "Ah she's very masterful."
"No—that's not the way. At any rate it isn't hers," he smiled. He remembered, however, then that an undue95 acquaintance with Kate's ways was just what he mustn't show; and he pursued the subject no further than to remark with a good intention that had the further merit of representing a truth: "I don't feel as if I knew her—really to call know."
"Well, if you come to that, I don't either!" she laughed. The words gave him, as soon as they were uttered, a sense of responsibility for his own; though during a silence that ensued for a minute he had time to recognise that his own contained after all no element of falsity. Strange enough therefore was it that he could go too far—if it was too far—without being false. His observation was one he would perfectly have made to Kate herself. And before he again spoke, and before Milly did, he took time for more still—for feeling how just here it was that he must break short off if his mind was really made up not to go further. It was as if he had been at a corner—and fairly put there by his last speech; so that it depended on him whether or no to turn it. The silence, if prolonged but an instant, might even have given him a sense of her waiting to see what he would do. It was filled for them the next thing by the sound, rather voluminous for the August afternoon, of the approach, in the street below them, of heavy carriage-wheels and of horses trained to "step." A rumble96, a great shake, a considerable effective clatter97, had been apparently succeeded by a pause at the door of the hotel, which was in turn accompanied by a due display of diminished prancing98 and stamping. "You've a visitor," Densher laughed, "and it must be at least an ambassador."
"It's only my own carriage; it does that—isn't it wonderful?—every day. But we find it, Mrs. Stringham and I, in the innocence99 of our hearts, very amusing." She had got up, as she spoke, to assure herself of what she said; and at the end of a few steps they were together on the balcony and looking down at her waiting chariot, which made indeed a brave show. "Is it very awful?"
It was to Densher's eyes—save for its absurd heaviness—only pleasantly pompous100. "It seems to me delightfully101 rococo102. But how do I know? You're mistress of these things, in contact with the highest wisdom. You occupy a position, moreover, thanks to which your carriage—well, by this time, in the eye of London, also occupies one." But she was going out, and he mustn't stand in her way. What had happened the next minute was first that she had denied she was going out, so that he might prolong his stay; and second that she had said she would go out with pleasure if he would like to drive—that in fact there were always things to do, that there had been a question for her to-day of several in particular, and that this in short was why the carriage had been ordered so early. They perceived, as she said these things, that an enquirer103 had presented himself, and, coming back, they found Milly's servant announcing the carriage and prepared to accompany her. This appeared to have for her the effect of settling the matter—on the basis, that is, of Densher's happy response. Densher's happy response, however, had as yet hung fire, the process we have described in him operating by this time with extreme intensity104. The system of not pulling up, not breaking off, had already brought him headlong, he seemed to feel, to where they actually stood; and just now it was, with a vengeance105, that he must do either one thing or the other. He had been waiting for some moments, which probably seemed to him longer than they were; this was because he was anxiously watching himself wait. He couldn't keep that up for ever; and since one thing or the other was what he must do, it was for the other that he presently became conscious of having decided106. If he had been drifting it settled itself in the manner of a bump, of considerable violence, against a firm object in the stream. "Oh yes; I'll go with you with pleasure. It's a charming idea."
She gave no look to thank him—she rather looked away; she only said at once to her servant, "In ten minutes"; and then to her visitor, as the man went out, "We'll go somewhere—I shall like that. But I must ask of you time—as little as possible—to get ready." She looked over the room to provide for him, keep him there. "There are books and things—plenty; and I dress very quickly." He caught her eyes only as she went, on which he thought them pretty and touching107.
Why especially touching at that instant he could certainly scarce have said; it was involved, it was lost in the sense of her wishing to oblige him. Clearly what had occurred was her having wished it so that she had made him simply wish, in civil acknowledgement, to oblige her; which he had now fully done by turning his corner. He was quite round it, his corner, by the time the door had closed upon her and he stood there alone. Alone he remained for three minutes more—remained with several very living little matters to think about. One of these was the phenomenon—typical, highly American, he would have said—of Milly's extreme spontaneity. It was perhaps rather as if he had sought refuge—refuge from another question—in the almost exclusive contemplation of this. Yet this, in its way, led him nowhere; not even to a sound generalisation about American girls. It was spontaneous for his young friend to have asked him to drive with her alone—since she hadn't mentioned her companion; but she struck him after all as no more advanced in doing it than Kate, for instance, who wasn't an American girl, might have struck him in not doing it. Besides, Kate would have done it, though Kate wasn't at all, in the same sense as Milly, spontaneous. And then in addition Kate had done it—or things very like it. Furthermore he was engaged to Kate—even if his ostensibly not being put her public freedom on other grounds. On all grounds, at any rate, the relation between Kate and freedom, between freedom and Kate, was a different one from any he could associate or cultivate, as to anything, with the girl who had just left him to prepare to give herself up to him. It had never struck him before, and he moved about the room while he thought of it, touching none of the books placed at his disposal. Milly was forward, as might be said, but not advanced; whereas Kate was backward—backward still, comparatively, as an English girl—and yet advanced in a high degree. However—though this didn't straighten it out—Kate was of course two or three years older; which at their time of life considerably108 counted.
Thus ingeniously discriminating109, Densher continued slowly to wander; yet without keeping at bay for long the sense of having rounded his corner. He had so rounded it that he felt himself lose even the option of taking advantage of Milly's absence to retrace110 his steps. If he might have turned tail, vulgarly speaking, five minutes before, he couldn't turn tail now; he must simply wait there with his consciousness charged to the brim. Quickly enough moreover that issue was closed from without; in the course of three minutes more Miss Theale's servant had returned. He preceded a visitor whom he had met, obviously, at the foot of the stairs and whom, throwing open the door, he loudly announced as Miss Croy. Kate, on following him in, stopped short at sight of Densher—only, after an instant, as the young man saw with free amusement, not from surprise and still less from discomfiture111. Densher immediately gave his explanation—Miss Theale had gone to prepare to drive—on receipt of which the servant effaced112 himself.
"And you're going with her?" Kate asked.
"Yes—with your approval; which I've taken, as you see, for granted."
"Oh," she laughed, "my approval's complete!" She was thoroughly113 consistent and handsome about it.
"What I mean is of course," he went on—for he was sensibly affected by her gaiety—"at your so lively instigation."
She had looked about the room—she might have been vaguely114 looking for signs of the duration, of the character of his visit, a momentary115 aid in taking a decision. "Well, instigation then, as much as you like." She treated it as pleasant, the success of her plea with him; she made a fresh joke of this direct impression of it. "So much so as that? Do you know I think I won't wait?"
"Not to see her—after coming?"
"Well, with you in the field—! I came for news of her, but she must be all right. If she is—"
But he took her straight up. "Ah how do I know?" He was moved to say more. "It's not I who am responsible for her, my dear. It seems to me it's you." She struck him as making light of a matter that had been costing him sundry116 qualms117; so that they couldn't both be quite just. Either she was too easy or he had been too anxious. He didn't want at all events to feel a fool for that. "I'm doing nothing—and shall not, I assure you, do anything but what I'm told."
Their eyes met with some intensity over the emphasis he had given his words; and he had taken it from her the next moment that he really needn't get into a state. What in the world was the matter? She asked it, with interest, for all answer. "Isn't she better—if she's able to see you?"
"She assures me she's in perfect health."
Kate's interest grew. "I knew she would." On which she added: "It won't have been really for illness that she stayed away last night."
"For what then?"
"Well—for nervousness."
"Nervousness about what?"
"Oh you know!" She spoke with a hint of impatience118, smiling however the next moment. "I've told you that."
He looked at her to recover in her face what she had told him; then it was as if what he saw there prompted him to say: "What have you told her?"
She gave him her controlled smile, and it was all as if they remembered where they were, liable to surprise, talking with softened119 voices, even stretching their opportunity, by such talk, beyond a quite right feeling. Milly's room would be close at hand, and yet they were saying things—! For a moment, none the less, they kept it up. "Ask her, if you like; you're free—she'll tell you. Act as you think best; don't trouble about what you think I may or mayn't have told. I'm all right with her," said Kate. "So there you are."
"If you mean here I am," he answered, "it's unmistakeable. If you also mean that her believing in you is all I have to do with you're so far right as that she certainly does believe in you."
"Well then take example by her."
"She's really doing it for you," Densher continued. "She's driving me out for you."
"In that case," said Kate with her soft tranquillity120, "you can do it a little for her. I'm not afraid," she smiled.
He stood before her a moment, taking in again the face she put on it and affected again, as he had already so often been, by more things in this face and in her whole person and presence than he was, to his relief, obliged to find words for. It wasn't, under such impressions, a question of words. "I do nothing for any one in the world but you. But for you I'll do anything."
"Good, good," said Kate. "That's how I like you."
He waited again an instant. "Then you swear to it?"
"To 'it'? To what?"
"Why that you do 'like' me. Since it's all for that, you know, that I'm letting you do—well, God knows what with me."
She gave at this, with a stare, a disheartened gesture—the sense of which she immediately further expressed. "If you don't believe in me then, after all, hadn't you better break off before you've gone further?"
"Break off with you?"
"Break off with Milly. You might go now," she said, "and I'll stay and explain to her why it is."
He wondered—as if it struck him. "What would you say?"
"Why that you find you can't stand her, and that there's nothing for me but to bear with you as I best may."
He considered of this. "How much do you abuse me to her?"
"Exactly enough. As much as you see by her attitude."
Again he thought. "It doesn't seem to me I ought to mind her attitude."
"Well then, just as you like. I'll stay and do my best for you."
He saw she was sincere, was really giving him a chance; and that of itself made things clearer. The feeling of how far he had gone came back to him not in repentance121, but in this very vision of an escape; and it Was not of what he had done, but of what Kate offered, that he now weighed the consequence. "Won't it make her—her not finding me here—be rather more sure there's something between us?"
Kate thought. "Oh I don't know. It will of course greatly upset her. But you needn't trouble about that. She won't die of it."
"Do you mean she will?" Densher presently asked.
"Don't put me questions when you don't believe what I say. You make too many conditions."
She spoke now with a shade of rational weariness that made the want of pliancy122, the failure to oblige her, look poor and ugly; so that what it suddenly came back to for him was his deficiency in the things a man of any taste, so engaged, so enlisted123, would have liked to make sure of being able to show—imagination, tact4, positively even humour. The circumstance is doubtless odd, but the truth is none the less that the speculation124 uppermost with him at this juncture125 was: "What if I should begin to bore this creature?" And that, within a few seconds, had translated itself. "If you'll swear again you love me—!"
She looked about, at door and window, as if he were asking for more than he said. "Here? There's nothing between us here," Kate smiled.
"Oh isn't there?" Her smile itself, with this, had so settled something for him that he had come to her pleadingly and holding out his hands, which she immediately seized with her own as if both to check him and to keep him. It was by keeping him thus for a minute that she did check him; she held him long enough, while, with their eyes deeply meeting, they waited in silence for him to recover himself and renew his discretion126. He coloured as with a return of the sense of where they were, and that gave her precisely one of her usual victories, which immediately took further form. By the time he had dropped her hands he had again taken hold, as it were, of Milly's. It was not at any rate with Milly he had broken. "I'll do all you wish," he declared as if to acknowledge the acceptance of his condition that he had practically, after all, drawn127 from her—a declaration on which she then, recurring128 to her first idea, promptly acted.
"If you are as good as that I go. You'll tell her that, finding you with her, I wouldn't wait. Say that, you know, from yourself. She'll understand."
She had reached the door with it—she was full of decision; but he had before she left him one more doubt. "I don't see how she can understand enough, you know, without understanding too much."
"You don't need to see."
He required then a last injunction. "I must simply go it blind?"
"You must simply be kind to her."
"And leave the rest to you?"
"Leave the rest to her," said Kate disappearing.
It came back then afresh to that, as it had come before. Milly, three minutes after Kate had gone, returned in her array—her big black hat, so little superstitiously129 in the fashion, her fine black garments throughout, the swathing of her throat, which Densher vaguely took for an infinite number of yards of priceless lace, and which, its folded fabric130 kept in place by heavy rows of pearls, hung down to her feet like the stole of a priestess. He spoke to her at once of their friend's visit and flight. "She hadn't known she'd find me," he said—and said at present without difficulty. He had so rounded his corner that it wasn't a question of a word more or less.
She took this account of the matter as quite sufficient; she glossed131 over whatever might be awkward. "I'm sorry—but I of course often see her." He felt the discrimination in his favour and how it justified132 Kate. This was Milly's tone when the matter was left to her. Well, it should now be wholly left.
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1
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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2
legitimacy
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| n.合法，正当 | |
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annexation
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| n.吞并，合并 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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5
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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9
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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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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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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15
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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16
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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17
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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18
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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19
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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20
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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21
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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23
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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24
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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25
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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26
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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27
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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28
overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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29
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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30
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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32
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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33
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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34
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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35
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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36
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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37
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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38
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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39
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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40
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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41
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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42
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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43
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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44
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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45
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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46
luridly
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| adv. 青灰色的(苍白的, 深浓色的, 火焰等火红的) | |
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47
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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48
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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49
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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50
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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51
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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52
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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54
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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55
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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56
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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57
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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58
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
abjection
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| n. 卑鄙, 落魄 | |
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60
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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61
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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62
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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63
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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64
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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66
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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67
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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68
overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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69
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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70
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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71
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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72
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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73
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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75
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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78
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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79
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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80
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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81
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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82
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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83
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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84
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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85
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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86
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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87
scud
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| n.疾行；v.疾行 | |
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88
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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89
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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90
drench
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| v.使淋透，使湿透 | |
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91
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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92
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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93
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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94
bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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95
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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96
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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97
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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98
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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99
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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100
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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101
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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102
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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103
enquirer
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| 寻问者，追究者 | |
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104
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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105
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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106
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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107
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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108
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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109
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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110
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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111
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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112
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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113
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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114
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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115
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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116
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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117
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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118
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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119
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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120
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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pliancy
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| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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superstitiously
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| 被邪教所支配 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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glossed
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| v.注解( gloss的过去式和过去分词 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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