I did not suppose that she was clever or could ever be amusing, but there was something in her grave intentness which excited my interest.  我并不认为她脑筋如何聪明或者有什么风趣，但她那种严肃、专注的神情却很使人感到兴趣。

　　Her reserve was not without mystery.  她的稳重沉默里似乎蕴藏着某种神秘。我

　　I wondered why she had married Dirk Stroeve.  不知道为什么她要嫁给戴尔克·施特略夫。

　　Though she was English, I could not exactly place her, and it was not obvious from what rank in society she sprang,  虽然她和我是同乡，我却猜不透她是怎样一个人。我看不出她出身于什么社会阶层，

　　what had been her upbringing, or how she had lived before her marriage.  受过什么教育，也说不出她结婚前干的是什么职业。

　　She was very silent, but when she spoke it was with a pleasant voice, and her manners were natural. 她说话不多，但是她的声音很悦耳，举止也非常自然。

　　I asked Stroeve if he was working. 我问施特略夫他最近画没画过什么东西。

　　Working? I'm painting better than I've ever painted before. “画画？我现在比过去任何时候画得都好了。”

　　We sat in the studio, and he waved his hand to an unfinished picture on an easel.  我们当时坐在他的画室里；他朝着画架上一幅没有完成的作品挥了挥手。

　　I gave a little start.  我吃了一惊。

　　He was painting a group of Italian peasants, in the costume of the Campagna, lounging on the steps of a Roman church. 他画的是一群意大利农民，身穿罗马近郊服装，正在一个罗马大教堂的台阶上闲荡。

　　Is that what you're doing now? I asked. “这就是你现在画的画吗？”

　　Yes. I can get my models here just as well as in Rome. “是啊。我在这里也能象在罗马一样找到模特儿。”

　　Don't you think it's very beautiful? said Mrs. Stroeve. “你不认为他画得很美吗？”施特略夫太太问道。

　　This foolish wife of mine thinks I'm a great artist, said he. “我这个傻妻子总认为我是个大画家，”他说。

　　His apologetic laugh did not disguise the pleasure that he felt.  他的表示歉意的笑声掩盖不住内心的喜悦。

　　His eyes lingered on his picture.  他的目光仍然滞留在自己的画上。

　　It was strange that his critical sense, so accurate and unconventional when he dealt with the work of others, should be satisfied in himself with what was hackneyed and vulgar beyond belief. 在评论别人的绘画时他的眼光是那样准确，不落俗套，但是对他自己的那些平凡陈腐、俗不可耐的画却那样自鸣得意，真是一桩怪事。

　　Show him some more of your pictures, she said. “让他看看你别的画。”她说。

　　Shall I? “人家要看吗？”