When McKann went into town in the morning he found that every seat in the music-hall was sold. He telephoned his wife to that effect, and, thinking he had settled the matter, made his reservation on the 11.25 train for New York. He was unable to get a drawing-room because this same Kitty Ayrshire had taken the last one. He had not intended going to New York until the following week, but he preferred to be absent during Mrs. Post’s incumbency6.
In the middle of the morning, when he was deep in his correspondence, his wife called him up to say the enterprising Mrs. Post had telephoned some musical friends in Sewickley and had found that two hundred folding-chairs were to be placed on the stage of the concert-hall, behind the piano, and that they would be on sale at noon. Would he please get seats in the front row? McKann asked if they would not excuse him, since he was going over to New York on the late train, would be tired, and would not have time to dress, etc. No, not at all. It would be foolish for two women to trail up to the stage unattended. Mrs. Post’s husband always accompanied her to concerts, and she expected that much attention from her host. He needn’t dress, and he could take a taxi from the concert-hall to the East Liberty station.
The outcome of it all was that, though his bag was at the station, here was McKann, in the worst possible humour, facing the large audience to which he was well known, and sitting among a lot of music students and excitable old maids. Only the desperately7 zealous8 or the morbidly9 curious would endure two hours in those wooden chairs, and he sat in the front row of this hectic10 body, somehow made a party to a transaction for which he had the utmost contempt.
When McKann had been in Paris, Kitty Ayrshire was singing at the Comique, and he wouldn’t go to hear her — even there, where one found so little that was better to do. She was too much talked about, too much advertised; always being thrust in an American’s face as if she were something to be proud of. Perfumes and petticoats and cutlets were named for her. Some one had pointed11 Kitty out to him one afternoon when she was driving in the Bois with a French composer — old enough, he judged, to be her father — who was said to be infatuated, carried away by her. McKann was told that this was one of the historic passions of old age. He had looked at her on that occasion, but she was so befrilled and befeathered that he caught nothing but a graceful12 outline and a small, dark head above a white ostrich13 boa. He had noted14 with disgust, however, the stooped shoulders and white imperial of the silk-hatted man beside her, and the senescent line of his back. McKann described to his wife this unpleasing picture only last night, while he was undressing, when he was making every possible effort to avert15 this concert party. But Bessie only looked superior and said she wished to hear Kitty Ayrshire sing, and that her “private life” was something in which she had no interest.
Well, here he was; hot and uncomfortable, in a chair much too small for him, with a row of blinding footlights glaring in his eyes. Suddenly the door at his right elbow opened. Their seats were at one end of the front row; he had thought they would be less conspicuous16 there than in the centre, and he had not foreseen that the singer would walk over him every time she came upon the stage. Her velvet17 train brushed against his trousers as she passed him. The applause which greeted her was neither overwhelming nor prolonged. Her conservative audience did not know exactly how to accept her toilette. They were accustomed to dignified18 concert gowns, like those which Pittsburgh matrons (in those days!) wore at their daughters’ coming-out teas.
Kitty’s gown that evening was really quite outrageous19 — the repartée of a conscienceless Parisian designer who took her hint that she wished something that would be entirely20 novel in the States. Today, after we have all of us, even in the uttermost provinces, been educated by Baskt and the various Ballets Russes, we would accept such a gown without distrust; but then it was a little disconcerting, even to the well-disposed. It was constructed of a yard or two of green velvet — a reviling21, shrieking22 green which would have made a fright of any woman who had not inextinguishable beauty — and it was made without armholes, a device to which we were then so unaccustomed that it was nothing less than alarming. The velvet skirt split back from a transparent23 gold-lace petticoat, gold stockings, gold slippers24. The narrow train was, apparently26, looped to both ankles, and it kept curling about her feet like a serpent’s tail, turning up its gold lining27 as if it were squirming over on its back. It was not, we felt, a costume in which to sing Mozart and Handel and Beethoven.
Kitty sensed the chill in the air, and it amused her. She liked to be thought a brilliant artist by other artists, but by the world at large she liked to be thought a daring creature. She had every reason to believe, from experience and from example, that to shock the great crowd was the surest way to get its money and to make her name a household word. Nobody ever became a household word of being an artist, surely; and you were not a thoroughly28 paying proposition until your name meant something on the sidewalk and in the barber-shop. Kitty studied her audience with an appraising29 eye. She liked the stimulus30 of this disapprobation. As she faced this hard-shelled public she felt keen and interested; she knew that she would give such a recital as cannot often be heard for money. She nodded gaily32 to the young man at the piano, fell into an attitude of seriousness, and began the group of Beethoven and Mozart songs.
Though McKann would not have admitted it, there were really a great many people in the concert-hall who knew what the prodigal33 daughter of their country was singing, and how well she was doing it. They thawed34 gradually under the beauty of her voice and the subtlety35 of her interpretation36. She had sung seldom in concert then, and they had supposed her very dependent upon the accessories of the opera. Clean singing, finished artistry, were not what they expected from her. They began to feel, even, the wayward charm of her personality.
McKann, who stared coldly up at the balconies during her first song, during the second glanced cautiously at the green apparition37 before him. He was vexed38 with her for having retained a débutante figure. He comfortably classed all singers — especially operatic singers — as “fat Dutchwomen” or “shifty Sadies,” and Kitty would not fit into his clever generalization39. She displayed, under his nose, the only kind of figure he considered worth looking at — that of a very young girl, supple40 and sinuous41 and quicksilverish; thin, eager shoulders, polished white arms that were nowhere too fat and nowhere too thin. McKann found it agreeable to look at Kitty, but when he saw that the authoritative42 Mrs. Post, red as a turkey-cock with opinions she was bursting to impart, was studying and appraising the singer through her lorgnette, he gazed indifferently out into the house again. He felt for his watch, but his wife touched him warningly with her elbow — which, he noticed, was not at all like Kitty’s.
When Miss Ayrshire finished her first group of songs, her audience expressed its approval positively43, but guardedly. She smiled bewitchingly upon the people in front, glanced up at the balconies, and then turned to the company huddled44 on the stage behind her. After her gay and careless bows, she retreated toward the stage door. As she passed McKann, she again brushed lightly against him, and this time she paused long enough to glance down at him and murmur45, “Pardon!”
In the moment her bright, curious eyes rested upon him, McKann seemed to see himself as if she were holding a mirror up before him. He beheld46 himself a heavy, solid figure, unsuitably clad for the time and place, with a florid, square face, well-visored with good living and sane47 opinions — an inexpressive countenance48. Not a rock face, exactly, but a kind of pressed-brick-and-cement face, a “business” face upon which years and feelings had made no mark — in which cocktails49 might eventually blast out a few hollows. He had never seen himself so distinctly in his shaving-glass as he did in that instant when Kitty Ayrshire’s liquid eye held him, when her bright, inquiring glance roamed over his person. After her prehensile50 train curled over his boot and she was gone, his wife turned to him and said in the tone of approbation31 one uses when an infant manifests its groping intelligence, “Very gracious of her, I’m sure!” Mrs. Post nodded oracularly. McKann grunted51.
Kitty began her second number, a group of romantic German songs which were altogether more her affair than her first number. When she turned once to acknowledge the applause behind her, she caught McKann in the act of yawning behind his hand — he of course wore no gloves — and he thought she frowned a little. This did not embarrass him; it somehow made him feel important. When she retired52 after the second part of the program, she again looked him over curiously53 as she passed, and she took marked precaution that her dress did not touch him. Mrs. Post and his wife again commented upon her consideration.
The final number was made up of modern French songs which Kitty sang enchantingly, and at last her frigid54 public was thoroughly aroused. While she was coming back again and again to smile and curtsy, McKann whispered to his wife that if there were to be encores he had better make a dash for his train.
“Not at all,” put in Mrs. Post. “Kitty is going on the same train. She sings in Faust at the opera tomorrow night, so she’ll take no chances.”
McKann once more told himself how sorry he felt for Post. At last Miss Ayrshire returned, escorted by her accompanist, and gave the people what she of course knew they wanted: the most popular aria55 from the French opera of which the title-r?le had become synonymous with her name — an opera written for her and to her and round about her, by the veteran French composer who adored her, — the last and not the palest flash of his creative fire. This brought her audience all the way. They clamoured for more of it, but she was not to be coerced56. She had been unyielding through storms to which this was a summer breeze. She came on once more, shrugged57 her shoulders, blew them a kiss, and was gone. Her last smile was for that uncomfortable part of her audience seated behind her, and she looked with recognition at McKann and his ladies as she nodded good night to the wooden chairs.
McKann hurried his charges into the foyer by the nearest exit and put them into his motor. Then he went over to the Schenley to have a glass of beer and a rarebit before train-time. He had not, he admitted to himself, been so much bored as he pretended. The minx herself was well enough, but it was absurd in his fellow-townsmen to look owlish and uplifted about her. He had no rooted dislike for pretty women; he even didn’t deny that gay girls had their place in the world, but they ought to be kept in their place. He was born a Presbyterian, just as he was born a McKann. He sat in his pew in the First Church every Sunday, and he never missed a presbytery meeting when he was in town. His religion was not very spiritual, certainly, but it was substantial and concrete, made up of good, hard convictions and opinions. It had something to do with citizenship58, with whom one ought to marry, with the coal business (in which his own name was powerful), with the Republican party, and with all majorities and established precedents59. He was hostile to fads60, to enthusiasms, to individualism, to all changes except in mining machinery61 and in methods of transportation.
His equanimity62 restored by his lunch at the Schenley, McKann lit a big cigar, got into his taxi, and bowled off through the sleet63.
There was not a sound to be heard or a light to be seen. The ice glittered on the pavement and on the naked trees. No restless feet were abroad. At eleven o’clock the rows of small, comfortable houses looked as empty of the troublesome bubble of life as the Allegheny cemetery64 itself. Suddenly the cab stopped, and McKann thrust his head out of the window. A woman was standing65 in the middle of the street addressing his driver in a tone of excitement. Over against the curb66 a lone67 electric stood despondent68 in the storm. The young woman, her cloak blowing about her, turned from the driver to McKann himself, speaking rapidly and somewhat incoherently.
“Could you not be so kind as to help us? It is Mees Ayrshire, the singer. The juice is gone out and we cannot move. We must get to the station. Mademoiselle cannot miss the train; she sings tomorrow night in New York. It is very important. Could you not take us to the station at East Liberty?”
McKann opened the door. “That’s all right, but you’ll have to hurry. It’s eleven-ten now. You’ve only got fifteen minutes to make the train. Tell her to come along.”
The maid drew back and looked up at him in amazement69. “But, the hand-luggage to carry, and Mademoiselle to walk! The street is like glass!”
McKann threw away his cigar and followed her. He stood silent by the door of the derelict, while the maid explained that she had found help. The driver had gone off somewhere to telephone for a car. Miss Ayrshire seemed not at all apprehensive70; she had not doubted that a rescuer would be forthcoming. She moved deliberately71; out of a whirl of skirts she thrust one fur-topped shoe — McKann saw the flash of the gold stocking above it — and alighted.
“So kind of you! So fortunate for us!” she murmured. One hand she placed upon his sleeve, and in the other she carried an armful of roses that had been sent up to the concert stage. The petals72 showered upon the sooty, sleety73 pavement as she picked her way along. They would be lying there tomorrow morning, and the children in those houses would wonder if there had been a funeral. The maid followed with two leather bags. As soon as he had lifted Kitty into his cab she exclaimed:
“My jewel-case! I have forgotten it. It is on the back seat, please. I am so careless!”
He dashed back, ran his hand along the cushions, and discovered a small leather bag. When he returned he found the maid and the luggage bestowed74 on the front seat, and a place left for him on the back seat beside Kitty and her flowers.
“Shall we be taking you far out of your way?” she asked sweetly. “I haven’t an idea where the station is. I’m not even sure about the name. Céline thinks it is East Liberty, but I think it is West Liberty. An odd name, anyway. It is a Bohemian quarter, perhaps? A district where the law relaxes a trifle?”
McKann replied grimly that he didn’t think the name referred to that kind of liberty.
“So much the better,” sighed Kitty. “I am a Californian; that’s the only part of America I know very well, and out there, when we called a place Liberty Hill or Liberty Hollow — well, we meant it. You will excuse me if I’m uncommunicative, won’t you? I must not talk in this raw air. My throat is sensitive after a long program.” She lay back in her corner and closed her eyes.
When the cab rolled down the incline at East Liberty station, the New York express was whistling in. A porter opened the door. McKann sprang out, gave him a claim check and his Pullman ticket, and told him to get his bag at the check-stand and rush it on that train.
Miss Ayrshire, having gathered up her flowers, put out her hand to take his arm. “Why, it’s you!” she exclaimed, as she saw his face in the light. “What a coincidence!” She made no further move to alight, but sat smiling as if she had just seated herself in a drawing-room and were ready for talk and a cup of tea.
McKann caught her arm. “You must hurry, Miss Ayrshire, if you mean to catch that train. It stops here only a moment. Can you run?”
“Can I run!” she laughed. “Try me!”
As they raced through the tunnel and up the inside stairway, McKann admitted that he had never before made a dash with feet so quick and sure stepping out beside him. The white-furred boots chased each other like lambs at play, the gold stockings flashed like the spokes75 of a bicycle wheel in the sun. They reached the door of Miss Ayrshire’s state-room just as the train began to pull out. McKann was ashamed of the way he was panting, for Kitty’s breathing was as soft and regular as when she was reclining on the back seat of his taxi. It had somehow run in his head that all these stage women were a poor lot physically78 — unsound, overfed creatures, like canaries that are kept in a cage and stuffed with song-restorer. He retreated to escape her thanks. “Good night! Pleasant journey! Pleasant dreams!” With a friendly nod in Kitty’s direction he closed the door behind him.
He was somewhat surprised to find his own bag, his Pullman ticket in the strap79, on the seat just outside Kitty’s door. But there was nothing strange about it. He had got the last section left on the train, No. 13, next the drawing-room. Every other berth80 in the car was made up. He was just starting to look for the porter when the door of the state-room opened and Kitty Ayrshire came out. She seated herself carelessly in the front seat beside his bag.
“Please talk to me a little,” she said coaxingly81. “I’m always wakeful after I sing, and I have to hunt some one to talk to. Céline and I get so tired of each other. We can speak very low, and we shall not disturb any one.” She crossed her feet and rested her elbow on his Gladstone. Though she still wore her gold slippers and stockings, she did not, he thanked Heaven, have on her concert gown, but a very demure82 black velvet with some sort of pearl trimming about the neck. “Wasn’t it funny,” she proceeded, “that it happened to be you who picked me up? I wanted a word with you, anyway.”
McKann smiled in a way that meant he wasn’t being taken in. “Did you? We are not very old acquaintances.”
“No, perhaps not. But you disapproved83 tonight, and I thought I was singing very well. You are very critical in such matters?”
He had been standing, but now he sat down. “My dear young lady, I am not critical at all. I know nothing about ‘such matters.’”
“And care less?” she said for him, “Well, then we know where we are, in so far as that is concerned. What did displease84 you? My gown, perhaps? It may seem a little outré here, but it’s the sort of thing all the imaginative designers abroad are doing. You like the English sort of concert gown better?”
“About gowns,” said McKann, “I know even less than about music. If I looked uncomfortable, it was probably because I was uncomfortable. The seats were bad and the lights were annoying.”
Kitty looked up with solicitude85. “I was sorry they sold those seats. I don’t like to make people uncomfortable in any way. Did the lights give you a headache? They are very trying. They burn one’s eyes out in the end, I believe.” She paused and waved the porter away with a smile as he came toward them. Half-clad Pittsburghers were tramping up and down the aisle, casting sidelong glances at McKann and his companion. “How much better they look with all their clothes on,” she murmured. Then, turning directly to McKann again: “I saw you were not well seated, but I felt something quite hostile and personal. You were displeased86 with me. Doubtless many people are, but I seldom get an opportunity to question them. It would be nice if you took the trouble to tell me why you were displeased.”
She spoke76 frankly87, pleasantly, without a shadow of challenge or hauteur88. She did not seem to be angling for compliments. McKann settled himself in his seat. He thought he would try her out. She had come for it, and he would let her have it. He found, however, that it was harder to formulate89 the grounds of his disapproval90 than he would have supposed. Now that he sat face to face with her, now that she was leaning against his bag, he had no wish to hurt her.
“I’m a hard-headed business man,” he said evasively, “and I don’t much believe in any of you fluffy-ruffles people. I have a sort of natural distrust of them all, the men more than the women.”
She looked thoughtful. “Artists, you mean?” drawing her words slowly. “What is your business?”
“Coal.”
“I don’t feel any natural distrust of business men, and I know ever so many. I don’t know any coal-men, but I think I could become very much interested in coal. Am I larger-minded than you?”
McKann laughed. “I don’t think you know when you are interested or when you are not. I don’t believe you know what it feels like to be really interested. There is so much fake about your profession. It’s an affectation on both sides. I know a great many of the people who went to hear you tonight, and I know that most of them neither know nor care anything about music. They imagine they do, because it’s supposed to be the proper thing.”
Kitty sat upright and looked interested. She was certainly a lovely creature — the only one of her tribe he had ever seen that he would cross the street to see again. Those were remarkable91 eyes she had — curious, penetrating92, restless, somewhat impudent93, but not at all dulled by self-conceit.
“But isn’t that so in everything?” she cried. “How many of your clerks are honest because of a fine, individual sense of honour? They are honest because it is the accepted rule of good conduct in business. Do you know” — she looked at him squarely — “I thought you would have something quite definite to say to me; but this is funny-paper stuff, the sort of objection I’d expect from your office-boy.”
“Then you don’t think it silly for a lot of people to get together and pretend to enjoy something they know nothing about?”
“Of course I think it silly, but that’s the way God made audiences. Don’t people go to church in exactly the same way? If there were a spiritual-pressure test-machine at the door, I suspect not many of you would get to your pews.”
“How do you know I go to church?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, people with these old, ready-made opinions usually go to church. But you can’t evade94 me like that.” She tapped the edge of his seat with the toe of her gold slipper25. “You sat there all evening, glaring at me as if you could eat me alive. Now I give you a chance to state your objections, and you merely criticize my audience. What is it? Is it merely that you happen to dislike my personality? In that case, of course, I won’t press you.”
“No,” McKann frowned, “I perhaps dislike your professional personality. As I told you, I have a natural distrust of your variety.”
“Natural, I wonder?” Kitty murmured. “I don’t see why you should naturally dislike singers any more than I naturally dislike coal-men. I don’t classify people by their occupations. Doubtless I should find some coal-men repulsive95, and you may find some singers so. But I have reason to believe that, at least, I’m one of the less repellent.”
“I don’t doubt it,” McKann laughed, “and you’re a shrewd woman to boot. But you are, all of you, according to my standards, light people. You’re brilliant, some of you, but you’ve no depth.”
Kitty seemed to assent96, with a dive of her girlish head. “Well, it’s a merit in some things to be heavy, and in others to be light. Some things are meant to go deep, and others to go high. Do you want all the women in the world to be profound?”
“You are all,” he went on steadily97, watching her with indulgence, “fed on hectic emotions. You are pampered98. You don’t help to carry the burdens of the world. You are self-indulgent and appetent.”
“Yes, I am,” she assented99, with a candour which he did not expect. “Not all artists are, but I am. Why not? If I could once get a convincing statement as to why I should not be self-indulgent, I might change my ways. As for the burdens of the world — ” Kitty rested her chin on her clasped hands and looked thoughtful. “One should give pleasure to others. My dear sir, granting that the great majority of people can’t enjoy anything very keenly, you’ll admit that I give pleasure to many more people than you do. One should help others who are less fortunate; at present I am supporting just eight people, besides those I hire. There was never another family in California that had so many cripples and hard-luckers as that into which I had the honour to be born. The only ones who could take care of themselves were ruined by the San Francisco earthquake some time ago. One should make personal sacrifices. I do; I give money and time and effort to talented students. Oh, I give something much more than that! something that you probably have never given to any one. I give, to the really gifted ones, my wish, my desire, my light, if I have any; and that, Mr. Worldly Wiseman, is like giving one’s blood! It’s the kind of thing you prudent100 people never give. That is what was in the box of precious ointment101.” Kitty threw off her fervour with a slight gesture, as if it were a scarf, and leaned back, tucking her slipper up on the edge of his seat. “If you saw the houses I keep up,” she sighed, “and the people I employ, and the motor-cars I run — And, after all, I’ve only this to do it with.” She indicated her slender person, which Marshall could almost have broken in two with his bare hands.
She was, he thought, very much like any other charming woman, except that she was more so. Her familiarity was natural and simple. She was at ease because she was not afraid of him or of herself, or of certain half-clad acquaintances of his who had been wandering up and down the car oftener than was necessary. Well, he was not afraid, either.
Kitty put her arms over her head and sighed again, feeling the smooth part in her black hair. Her head was small — capable of great agitation102, like a bird’s; or of great resignation, like a nun103’s. “I can’t see why I shouldn’t be self-indulgent, when I indulge others. I can’t understand your equivocal scheme of ethics104. Now I can understand Count Tolstoy’s, perfectly105. I had a long talk with him once, about his book ‘What is Art?’ As nearly as I could get it, he believes that we are a race who can exist only by gratifying appetites; the appetites are evil, and the existence they carry on is evil. We were always sad, he says, without knowing why; even in the Stone Age. In some miraculous106 way a divine ideal was disclosed to us, directly at variance107 with our appetites. It gave us a new craving108, which we could only satisfy by starving all the other hungers in us. Happiness lies in ceasing to be and to cause being, because the thing revealed to us is dearer than any existence our appetites can ever get for us. I can understand that. It’s something one often feels in art. It is even the subject of the greatest of all operas, which, because I can never hope to sing it, I love more than all the others.” Kitty pulled herself up. “Perhaps you agree with Tolstoy?” she added languidly.
“No; I think he’s a crank,” said McKann, cheerfully.
“What do you mean by a crank?”
“I mean an extremist.”
Kitty laughed. “Weighty word! You’ll always have a world full of people who keep to the golden mean. Why bother yourself about me and Tolstoy?”
“I don’t, except when you bother me.”
“Poor man! It’s true this isn’t your fault. Still, you did provoke it by glaring at me. Why did you go to the concert?”
“I was dragged.”
“I might have known!” she chuckled109, and shook her head. “No, you don’t give me any good reasons. Your morality seems to me the compromise of cowardice110, apologetic and sneaking111. When righteousness becomes alive and burning, you hate it as much as you do beauty. You want a little of each in your life, perhaps — adulterated, sterilized112, with the sting taken out. It’s true enough they are both fearsome things when they get loose in the world; they don’t, often.”
McKann hated tall talk. “My views on women,” he said slowly, “are simple.”
“Doubtless,” Kitty responded dryly, “but are they consistent? Do you apply them to your stenographers as well as to me? I take it for granted you have unmarried stenographers. Their position, economically, is the same as mine.”
McKann studied the toe of her shoe. “With a woman, everything comes back to one thing.” His manner was judicial114.
She laughed indulgently. “So we are getting down to brass115 tacks116, eh? I have beaten you in argument, and now you are leading trumps117.”
She put her hands behind her head and her lips parted in a half-yawn. “Does everything come back to one thing? I wish I knew! It’s more than likely that, under the same conditions, I should have been very like your stenographers — if they are good ones. Whatever I was, I would have been a good one. I think people are very much alike. You are more different than any one I have met for some time, but I know that there are a great many more at home like you. And even you — I believe there is a real creature down under these custom-made prejudices that save you the trouble of thinking. If you and I were shipwrecked on a desert island, I have no doubt that we would come to a simple and natural understanding. I’m neither a coward nor a shirk. You would find, if you had to undertake any enterprise of danger or difficulty with a woman, that there are several qualifications quite as important as the one to which you doubtless refer.”
McKann felt nervously118 for his watch-chain. “Of course,” he brought out, “I am not laying down any generalizations119 — ” His brows wrinkled.
“Oh, aren’t you?” murmured Kitty. “Then I totally misunderstood. But remember” — holding up a finger — “it is you, not I, who are afraid to pursue this subject further. Now, I’ll tell you something.” She leaned forward and clasped her slim, white hands about her velvet knee. “I am as much a victim of these ineradicable prejudices as you. Your stenographer113 seems to you a better sort. Well, she does to me. Just because her life is, presumably, greyer than mine, she seems better. My mind tells me that dulness, and a mediocre120 order of ability, and poverty, are not in themselves admirable things. Yet in my heart I always feel that the sales-women in shops and the working girls in factories are more meritorious121 than I. Many of them, with my opportunities, would be more selfish than I am. Some of them, with their own opportunities, are more selfish. Yet I make this sentimental122 genuflection123 before the nun and the charwoman. Tell me, haven’t you any weakness? Isn’t there any foolish natural thing that unbends you a trifle and makes you feel gay?”
“I like to go fishing.”
“To see how many fish you can catch?”
“No, I like the woods and the weather. I like to play a fish and work hard for him. I like the pussy-willows and the cold; and the sky, whether it’s blue or grey — night coming on, every thing about it.”
He spoke devoutly124, and Kitty watched him through half-closed eyes. “And you like to feel that there are light-minded girls like me, who only care about the inside of shops and theatres and hotels, eh? You amuse me, you and your fish! But I mustn’t keep you any longer. Haven’t I given you every opportunity to state your case against me? I thought you would have more to say for yourself. Do you know, I believe it’s not a case you have at all, but a grudge125. I believe you are envious126; that you’d like to be a tenor127, and a perfect lady-killer!” She rose, smiling, and paused with her hand on the door of her stateroom. “Anyhow, thank you for a pleasant evening. And, by the way, dream of me tonight, and not of either of those ladies who sat beside you. It does not matter much whom we live with in this world, but it matters a great deal whom we dream of.” She noticed his bricky flush. “You are very naive128, after all, but, oh, so cautious! You are naturally afraid of everything new, just as I naturally want to try everything: new people, new religions — new miseries129, even. If only there were more new things — If only you were really new! I might learn something. I’m like the Queen of Sheba — I’m not above learning. But you, my friend, would be afraid to try a new shaving soap. It isn’t gravitation that holds the world in place; it’s the lazy, obese130 cowardice of the people on it. All the same” — taking his hand and smiling encouragingly — “I’m going to haunt you a little. Adios!”
When Kitty entered her state-room, Céline, in her dressing-gown, was nodding by the window.
“Mademoiselle found the fat gentleman interesting?” she asked. “It is nearly one.”
“Negatively interesting. His kind always say the same thing. If I could find one really intelligent man who held his views, I should adopt them.”
“Monsieur did not look like an original,” murmured Céline, as she began to take down her lady’s hair.
McKann slept heavily, as usual, and the porter had to shake him in the morning. He sat up in his berth, and, after composing his hair with his fingers, began to hunt about for his clothes. As he put up the window-blind some bright object in the little hammock over his bed caught the sunlight and glittered. He stared and picked up a delicately turned gold slipper.
“Minx! hussy!” he ejaculated. “All that tall talk —! Probably got it from some man who hangs about; learned it off like a parrot. Did she poke77 this in here herself last night, or did she send that sneak-faced Frenchwoman? I like her nerve!” He wondered whether he might have been breathing audibly when the intruder thrust her head between his curtains. He was conscious that he did not look a Prince Charming in his sleep. He dressed as fast as he could, and, when he was ready to go to the wash-room, glared at the slipper. If the porter should start to make up his berth in his absence — He caught the slipper, wrapped it in his pajama jacket, and thrust it into his bag. He escaped from the train without seeing his tormentor131 again.
Later McKann threw the slipper into the waste-basket in his room at the Knickerbocker, but the chambermaid, seeing that it was new and mateless, thought there must be a mistake, and placed it in his clothes-closet. He found it there when he returned from the theatre that evening. Considerably132 mellowed133 by food and drink and cheerful company, he took the slipper in his hand and decided134 to keep it as a reminder135 that absurd things could happen to people of the most clocklike deportment. When he got back to Pittsburgh, he stuck it in a lock-box in his vault136, safe from prying137 clerks.
McKann has been ill for five years now, poor fellow! He still goes to the office, because it is the only place that interests him, but his partners do most of the work, and his clerks find him sadly changed — “morbid,” they call his state of mind. He has had the pine-trees in his yard cut down because they remind him of cemeteries138. On Sundays or holidays, when the office is empty, and he takes his will or his insurance-policies out of his lock-box, he often puts the tarnished139 gold slipper on his desk and looks at it. Somehow it suggests life to his tired mind, as his pine-trees suggested death — life and youth. When he drops over some day, his executors will be puzzled by the slipper.
As for Kitty Ayrshire, she has played so many jokes, practical and impractical140, since then, that she has long ago forgotten the night when she threw away a slipper to be a thorn in the side of a just man.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
aisle
|
|
| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
grievance
|
|
| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
meddlesome
|
|
| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
jovial
|
|
| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
recital
|
|
| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
incumbency
|
|
| n.职责，义务 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
zealous
|
|
| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
morbidly
|
|
| adv.病态地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
hectic
|
|
| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
ostrich
|
|
| n.鸵鸟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
avert
|
|
| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
conspicuous
|
|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
velvet
|
|
| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
dignified
|
|
| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
outrageous
|
|
| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
reviling
|
|
| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
shrieking
|
|
| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
slippers
|
|
| n. 拖鞋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
slipper
|
|
| n.拖鞋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
lining
|
|
| n.衬里，衬料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
appraising
|
|
| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
stimulus
|
|
| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
approbation
|
|
| n.称赞；认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
gaily
|
|
| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
prodigal
|
|
| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
thawed
|
|
| 解冻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
subtlety
|
|
| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
interpretation
|
|
| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
apparition
|
|
| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
vexed
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
generalization
|
|
| n.普遍性，一般性，概括 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
supple
|
|
| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
sinuous
|
|
| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
authoritative
|
|
| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
positively
|
|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
huddled
|
|
| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
murmur
|
|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
beheld
|
|
| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
sane
|
|
| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
cocktails
|
|
| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
prehensile
|
|
| adj.（足等）适于抓握的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
grunted
|
|
| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
frigid
|
|
| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
aria
|
|
| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
coerced
|
|
| v.迫使做( coerce的过去式和过去分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
shrugged
|
|
| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
citizenship
|
|
| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
precedents
|
|
| 引用单元； 范例( precedent的名词复数 )； 先前出现的事例； 前例； 先例 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
fads
|
|
| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
machinery
|
|
| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
equanimity
|
|
| n.沉着，镇定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
sleet
|
|
| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
cemetery
|
|
| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
curb
|
|
| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
lone
|
|
| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
despondent
|
|
| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
apprehensive
|
|
| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
deliberately
|
|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
petals
|
|
| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
sleety
|
|
| 雨夹雪的，下雨雪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
bestowed
|
|
| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
spokes
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
poke
|
|
| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
physically
|
|
| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
strap
|
|
| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
berth
|
|
| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
coaxingly
|
|
| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
82
demure
|
|
| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
disapproved
|
|
| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
displease
|
|
| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
solicitude
|
|
| n.焦虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
displeased
|
|
| a.不快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
hauteur
|
|
| n.傲慢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
formulate
|
|
| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
disapproval
|
|
| n.反对，不赞成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
penetrating
|
|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
impudent
|
|
| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
evade
|
|
| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
repulsive
|
|
| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
assent
|
|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
steadily
|
|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
pampered
|
|
| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
assented
|
|
| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
prudent
|
|
| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
ointment
|
|
| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
agitation
|
|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
nun
|
|
| n.修女，尼姑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
ethics
|
|
| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
miraculous
|
|
| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
variance
|
|
| n.矛盾，不同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
craving
|
|
| n.渴望,热望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
chuckled
|
|
| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
cowardice
|
|
| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
sneaking
|
|
| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
sterilized
|
|
| v.消毒( sterilize的过去式和过去分词 )；使无菌；使失去生育能力；使绝育 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
stenographer
|
|
| n.速记员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
judicial
|
|
| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
brass
|
|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
tacks
|
|
| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
trumps
|
|
| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
generalizations
|
|
| 一般化( generalization的名词复数 )； 普通化； 归纳； 概论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
mediocre
|
|
| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
meritorious
|
|
| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
genuflection
|
|
| n. 曲膝, 屈服 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
124
devoutly
|
|
| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
grudge
|
|
| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
envious
|
|
| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
tenor
|
|
| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
naive
|
|
| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
miseries
|
|
| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
obese
|
|
| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
tormentor
|
|
| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
considerably
|
|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
mellowed
|
|
| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
reminder
|
|
| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
vault
|
|
| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
prying
|
|
| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
cemeteries
|
|
| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
tarnished
|
|
| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
impractical
|
|
| adj.不现实的，不实用的，不切实际的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |