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The Age of Innocence
The Age of Innocence
The Age of Innocence
The Age of
Innocence
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Book I
I.
II.
III.
"Of course not. But aren't you, after all, the per-
son to do it?"
IV.
V.
All this Mrs. Archer felt, and her son knew she
felt; but he knew also that she had been per-
turbed by the premature announcement of his
engagement, or rather by its cause; and it was
for that reason—because on the whole he was a
tender and indulgent master—that he had
stayed at home that evening. "It's not that I
don't approve of the Mingotts' esprit de corps;
but why Newland's engagement should be
mixed up with that Olenska woman's comings
and goings I don't see," Mrs. Archer grumbled
to Janey, the only witness of her slight lapses
from perfect sweetness.
VI.
IX.
"The reason—?"
X.
"Consider—!"
XI.
"Then—"
That was the old New York note; that was the
kind of answer he would like always to be sure
of his wife's making. If one had habitually
breathed the New York air there were times
when anything less crystalline seemed stifling.
XII.
"Certainly not."
"Yes—?"
"If—?"
"Never?"
"Well—not if the woman, however injured,
however irreproachable, has appearances in the
least degree against her, has exposed herself by
any unconventional action to—to offensive
insinuations—"
XIII.
"I know."
Archer stood up, and left the box and the thea-
tre.
XIV.
"The fact is, life isn't much a fit for either of us,"
Winsett had once said. "I'm down and out;
nothing to be done about it. I've got only one
ware to produce, and there's no market for it
here, and won't be in my time. But you're free
and you're well-off. Why don't you get into
touch? There's only one way to do it: to go into
politics."
XV.
The red cloak made her look gay and vivid, like
the Ellen Mingott of old days; and he laughed
as he took her hand, and answered: "I came to
see what you were running away from."
Her face clouded over, but she answered: "Ah,
well—you will see, presently."
All this kept her very busy, and she had not
had time to do more than look at the little vel-
lum book that Archer had sent her the week
before (the "Sonnets from the Portuguese"); but
she was learning by heart "How they brought
the Good News from Ghent to Aix," because it
was one of the first things he had ever read to
her; and it amused her to be able to tell him
that Kate Merry had never even heard of a poet
called Robert Browning.
XVII.
"Tomorrow evening?"
"You thought?"
"Yes."
She gave him back all his kiss, but after a mo-
ment he felt her stiffening in his arms, and she
put him aside and stood up.
Book II
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
"Cruel?"
"Called away?—"
"Oh, my best parasol! I lent it to that goose of a
Katie, because it matched her ribbons, and the
careless thing must have dropped it here. We
Blenkers are all like that ... real Bohemians!"
Recovering the sunshade with a powerful hand
she unfurled it and suspended its rosy dome
above her head. "Yes, Ellen was called away
yesterday: she lets us call her Ellen, you know.
A telegram came from Boston: she said she
might be gone for two days. I do LOVE the way
she does her hair, don't you?" Miss Blenker
rambled on.
"Yes."
"Yes."
"With a letter?"
"On purpose?"
XXIV.
She nodded.
"You knew—?"
"Now—?"
"If Beaufort—"
XXVII.
XXVIII.
"Why?" he questioned.
XXIX.
"Oh, no."
"I meant to go to Washington to see you. I'd
made all my arrangements—I very nearly
crossed you in the train."
"Ellen—Ellen—Ellen!"
She made no answer, and he sat in silence,
watching her profile grow indistinct against the
snow-streaked dusk beyond the window. What
had she been doing in all those four long
months, he wondered? How little they knew of
each other, after all! The precious moments
were slipping away, but he had forgotten eve-
rything that he had meant to say to her and
could only helplessly brood on the mystery of
their remoteness and their proximity, which
seemed to be symbolised by the fact of their
sitting so close to each other, and yet being un-
able to see each other's faces.
"Yes."
"Yes."
"If you're not blind, then, you must see that this
can't last."
"What can't?"
XXX.
"What news?"
"I?" he stammered.
XXXI.
"Ah, meanwhile—"
"Afraid?"
"Well—?"
"Better—?"
"We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what
you always wanted?"
"From me?"
Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face
clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by
going home?"
"Home to my husband."
XXXII.
"Impossible—?"
"What things?"
XXXIII.
"As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..."
she said in an unsteady voice. "Not unless
you'll take me with you." And then, as he was
silent, she went on, in tones so clear and even-
ly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped
like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the
doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they
won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure
since this morning of something I've been so
longing and hoping for—"
"My Fanny?"
"Well, the woman you'd have chucked every-
thing for: only you didn't," continued his sur-
prising son.
"No: you date, you see, dear old boy. But moth-
er said—"
"Your mother?"