Перевод текста 3-4

Chapter III: Mrs. Schiller

IN all the busy town that seethed around him, there can have been but few
persons whose lives were as untroubled as was that of Thomas Pedley. He
had, in fact, not a care in the world. His work yielded a modest income
which was more than enough to supply his modest needs, and the doing of
that work was a pleasure that time could not stale. He never tired of
painting. If he had come into a fortune, he would still have gone on
painting for the mere joy of the occupation, and might then have missed
the added satisfaction of living by his industry. At any rate, he craved
no fortune and envied no one, except, perhaps, those artists whose work
he considered better than his own.

Thus, through the uneventful years, Tom pursued "the noiseless tenor' of
his way" in quiet happiness and perfect contentment, up to the period at
which this history now arrives, when we have to record the appearance of
a cloud upon his usually serene horizon. It was only a small cloud; but
its little shadow was enough to cause a sensible disturbance of his
habitually placid state of mind.

The trouble was not connected with the Gravel-pit Wood incident. That had
never occasioned him any anxiety, even though he had been aware--with a
slightly amused interest--that the police had by no means forgotten his
existence. But as the weeks had passed and the "Unsolved Mystery" had
gradually faded fr om the pages of the daily papers, so had it faded from
his own memory and ceased to be of any concern to him.

The cloud was, in fact, a feminine cloud. His troubles, like those of
Milton Perkins, were connected with the female of his species. For Tom,
as the reader has probably inferred, was a bachelor; and it was his
considered intention to remain a bachelor. Wh erefore, though he liked
women well enough, he avoided all feminine intimacies and kept a wary eye
on any unattached spinsters who came his way, and as for widows, he
viewed them with positive alarm.

Now it happened that, on a certain afternoon, Tom was working with great
enjoyment at a subject picture which his dealer had commissioned when the
jangling of the studio bell announced a visitor. With a snort of
annoyance he laid down his palette and brushes and went forth to confront
the disturber of his peace; when he discovered on the threshold a rather
tall woman, dressed--and painted--in the height of fashion, who turned
at the sound of the opening gate, and greeted him with a smile that made
his flesh creep.

"You are Mr. Pedley, I think," said she.

Tom was of the same opinion, and said so.