IF YOU ARE AN OBSERVANT PERSON addicted2 to washing your hands and face, you can hardly fail to have noticed the legend ‘Whitehand’ imprinted3 on your basin and soap-dish, and indeed on every sort of crockery. Probably, if you thought about it at all, you imagined that this was a trade-name, alluding4 to the effect of washing, but it is not really so at all. Mr. Whitehand is the kind American gentleman who supplies so many of us with these articles of toilet, and as a consequence Mr. Whitehand is rich if not beyond the feverish5 dreams of avarice6, at any rate, as rich as avarice can possibly desire to be in its waking moments.
This fortunate gentleman began life as a boy who swept out a public lavatory7 in New York, and this accounts for his turning his attention to hardware. When he had made this colossal8 fortune he set about spending it, though he had no chance of spending it as quickly as it came in, and with a view to this bought a large chocolate-coloured house in Fifth Avenue, a cottage at Newport, an immense steam-yacht, a complete train in which to go on his journeys, and ordered a few{162} dozen of Raphael’s pictures and some Gobelin tapestry9. He was never quite certain whether Gobelin had painted the pictures and the firm of Raphael the tapestry, but that did not matter, since he had them both. He then expected his wife to get him into the very best New York society, and enter the charmed circle of the Four Hundred. She had been his typewriter, and in a fit of moral weakness, of which he had never repented10, since she suited him extremely well, he had married her. But whether it was that the Four Hundred had seen too much of Mr. Whitehand’s name on their slop-basins, or whether he had not bought sufficient Raphaels, they one and all turned their ivory shoulders on him and his wife, and banged the door in their faces. As Mrs. Whitehand had just as keen a desire to shine among the stars of the amazing city as her husband, she was naturally much annoyed at her inability to climb into the firmament11, the more so because she was convinced that with practice she could become a first-rate climber. She had the indomitable will and the absolute imperviousness12 to rebuffs that are the birthright of that agile13 race, and felt the inward sense of her royalty14 in this respect, as might some Princess over whom a wizard had cast a spell. But some{163}how, here in New York, she got no practice in climbing, because she could make no beginning whatever. She could only stand on tiptoe, which is a very different matter. And when at the end of her second year of standing15 on tiptoe, Nittie Vandercrump, the acknowledged queen of Newport, cut her dead for the seventeenth time, and with her famous scream asked her friend, Nancy Costersnatch, who all those strange faces belonged to, Mrs. Whitehand began to think that New York was impregnable by direct assault. But in the manner of Benjamin Disraeli, she vowed17 that some day she would attract attention in that assembly, and with Nittie Vandercrump’s scream ringing in her ears, sat down to think.
Well, there were other places in the world besides New York, places where there grew social trees of far greater antiquity18 and magnificence, and she settled to climb the London tree. But she felt that she would get on better there at first without her husband. He was rather too fond of telling people what he paid for his Raphaels and how fast his special train went. When she had climbed right up among the topmost branches, she would send for him, and let a rope down to him, and he might quote as many prices as he chose, but she felt with the unerring instinct of{164} a born climber that he would be in the way at first, even as he had been in New York. She talked it over quite amicably19 with him that night, while the still air vibrated with the sound of the band next door and the screams of Nittie, and he cordially consented to the experiment. Money ad libitum was to be hers, and it was to be her business to get somewhere where the screams of Nittie would be no more to them than the cries of the milkman in the street. He, meantime, was to amuse himself with the special train and the Gobelin tapestry and the steam-yacht, and make himself as comfortable as he could, while his wife made this broad outflanking movement on New York.
So one May afternoon Sarah Whitehand, with twenty-two trunks and a couple of maids and her own indomitable will, arrived at the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly, and set about her business. She dined alone in the restaurant, read the small paragraphs in the evening paper, and ordered a box at the opera. She was an insignificant20 little personage in the way of physical advantages, being short, and having a face which owned no particular features. She had, it is true, two eyes, a nose and a mouth, for the absence of any of them would have made her conspicuous21, which she was not, but there was nothing to be said about them. They were just there: two of them greenish, one of them slightly turned up, while the other was but a hole in her face. She was not ugly any more than she was pretty; she was merely nothing at all; you did not look twice at her. But if you had, it might have struck you that there was something uncommonly23 shrewd about the insignificant objects which supplied the place of features. Also, when she was determined24 to do anything, you would have seen that she had a chin.
But to-night this face of common objects rose out of the most wonderful gown in shades of orange that was ever seen. It was crowned too in a winking25 splendour of diamonds that shouted and sang in her sandy-coloured hair, and round her neck were half-a-dozen rows of marvellous pearls. While the curtain was up she sat close to the front of her box with her eyes undeviatingly fixed26 on the stage, and when the curtain fell she stood there a minute more, so that the whole house should get a good view of her. She did not look about her; she merely stood there, seemingly unconscious of the opera-glasses that were turned on her from all quarters of the house. All round, everybody was asking everybody else{166} who the woman with the diamond Crystal Palace was, and nobody knew. Nor did anybody know, not even Mrs. Isaacs, the fashionable clairvoyante, who exposed a considerable portion of her ample form in the stalls, that through the mists of the horizon there faintly shone to-night the star of surpassing magnitude that was to climb to the very zenith, and burn there in unwinking splendour.
For the next week Sarah took no direct step forward, but sat in the Ritz Hotel, or in her box at the opera, or drove about on shopping errands. Among these latter must be included a quantity of visits to house-agents, who had in their hands the letting of furnished houses in such localities as Grosvenor Square and Brook27 Street, and what seemed to interest her more than the houses themselves was the question of who was wishing to let them. But she was in no hurry: she was perfectly28 well aware that the first steps were of the utmost importance, and before she stepped at all, she wanted to find the largest and strongest stepping-stone available. The evening usually found her alone in her opera-box, seemingly absorbed in the presentation of Russian ballet, and unconscious of the opera-glasses levelled at her. She gave the opera-glasses something to look at{167} too, for she never appeared twice in the same gown, but in a series of last cries, most stimulating29 to the observer. One night she wore a sort of bonnet30 of ospreys on her head, and again everybody asked everybody else who the Cherokee Indian was. But again nobody knew, and so they all supposed that the ospreys were made of celluloid. But they had an uncomfortable idea that they might be genuine. But if so, who’s were they? London began to be genuinely intrigued31.
After about a week of this, she suddenly lighted upon exactly what she had been looking for in the books of the house-agents. A certain new big house in Grosvenor Street, which externally recalled a fortress32 made of stout33 sand-bags was to be let by Lord Newgate (marquis of), the eldest34 son of the Duke of Bailey. Sarah had already seen Lady Newgate, a tall, floating dream of blue eyes, golden hair and child-like mouth, at the opera, and knew her and her husband to be among the true white nightingales who sing and play poker35 at the very top of the tree she was pining to climb. A less Napoleonic climber than she might have thought that to take the Newgates’ house was a passport to London, but she knew that it would only carry its cachet among the people who could not really be of any{168} use to her, namely, that well-dressed esurient gang of Londoners who find it quite sufficient to be fed and amused at other people’s expense. Sensible woman that she was, she fully36 intended to feed and amuse them, but it was not they that she was out for: at the best they were like the stage army which marches in at one door and out at another, and in and out again. They were not the principals. You were, of course, surrounded by people whom you fed and amused, if you were on the climb, just as you were surrounded by footmen and motor-cars, but she looked much further than this. She argued, again correctly, that if such conspicuously37 melodious38 songsters as the Newgates wanted to let their house during the very months when they would naturally be needing it most, they must be in considerable want of money, and would be likely to give some valuable equivalent for it. So, seeing her scheme complete from end to end, as far as the taking of this house was concerned, she told the slightly astonished agent that she was willing to take the house for the next three months or the next six at the price named, but that she wished to make her arrangements with Lady Newgate herself. The agent, seeing that she was just a wild American, politely represented to her that this was not the usual{169} method of doing such business in civilized39 places, but she remained adamant40.
‘If I don’t settle it up with the Marchioness of Newgate,’ she said, ‘I won’t settle it up with anybody else. Kindly41 give that message over your ’phone, please, to the Marchioness, and say that if she feels disposed to entertain my proposals, I shall be very happy to see her at the Ritz Hotel this afternoon. And if she don’t care to come, why, I don’t care to take her old house. That’s all. You may say that my name is Mrs. Whitehand, and that my husband’s the head of the firm, which she maybe has heard of.’
Now simple as this procedure appeared, it had the simplicity42 of genius about it, not the simplicity of the fool. As far as houses went, she did not care whether she had Lady Newgate’s house or a house in Newgate. What she was going for was Lady Newgate. It was possible, of course, that on receiving this message, Lady Newgate would simply say, ‘What on earth does she want to see me for? She can settle it through the agent.’ If that was the case, it was not likely that Lady Newgate would be any good to her. But it was quite possible that Lady Newgate might say, ‘Hullo: here is the Mrs. Whitehand going about looking for a house, and probably{170} unchaperoned.’ Anyhow there was a chance of this, and since Sarah Whitehand had nothing to lose, she took it. For there might be something to gain, and these are the best chances to take.
Now the price asked for this fortress of marble and cedar-wood was an extremely high one, and the Newgates would have been perfectly willing to take about half of the sum named, after a little genteel and lofty bargaining. Consequently the prospect43 of immediately obtaining the full price, not for three months only, but for six, including August and September, when an aged44 caretaker usually had it for nothing, was irresistibly45 attractive. Toby Newgate, it is true, momentarily demurred46 against his wife’s waiting upon the peremptory47 Yankee at the Ritz, but she had seen much further than him with her forget-me-not coloured eyes. She had seen in fact just as far as Mrs. Whitehand.
‘My dear, it’s flying in the face of Providence48 to neglect such a chance,’ she said, ‘and if she’d told me to wait at the bottle entrance of the Elephant and Castle I should have gone.’
He shuffled49 about the room a little.
‘Don’t like your being whistled to by the wife of the manufacturer of hardware, just for six months’ rent,’ he said.{171}
She laughed.
‘My dear Toby, it isn’t only six months’ rent that’s at stake,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to be landlady50 only, I expect, but godmother.’
‘Godmother?’
‘Yes, dear, and you godfather to Mr. Hardware, if he is here. But you needn’t buy any presents. Good American godchildren give the presents themselves.’
Toby had some vague sense of her position, she only the necessity of his poverty.
‘You mean you’re going to trot51 them round?’ he asked.
‘Yes, if possible. I think her message means that. Why else should she want to see me, or take the house for August and September? It’s a bribe52, a hint, a signal.’
The interview between the two ladies was extremely satisfactory, as is usually the case when there is no nonsense about the conversationalists, and each of them is willing and even eager to give exactly what the other wants. The business of the house was very soon relegated53 to a firm of solicitors54, and the godmotherly aspect began to show through the form of the landlady, as in some cunning transformation55 scene, faintly at first but with increasing distinctness.{172}
‘Your first visit to London?’ asked Madge Newgate.
‘Yes: I’ve been here but a week, and have done nothing but hunt round for a house and go to the opera.’
Instantly Lady Newgate remembered the solitary56 and dazzling figure in the box. She, too, had wondered who the woman in orange and diamonds was. Mrs. Whitehand’s face had made no impression whatever on her.
‘Ah, then I am sure I saw you there,’ she said. ‘We were all wondering who you were. You must allow me to put some of my friends out of their suspense57 by letting them know.’
Mrs. Whitehand laughed.
‘I should be very pleased for your friends not to strain themselves,’ she remarked. ‘And I’m in suspense too, as to who your friends are. I don’t know a soul in London.’
This was rather a relief to Madge Newgate. Sometimes a perfectly impossible tail was attached to these strange Americans, and you had to encounter the riff-raff of the Western world en masse. She laid her hand on the other’s knee.
‘My dear, you must get some friends at once,’ she said. ‘You might dine with us to-night, will you? I have two or three people coming.{173}’
This was quite sufficient. Mrs. Whitehand spoke58 shortly and to the point.
‘I want to be run,’ she said.
Madge Newgate was a perfectly honest woman, and now that all ambiguity59 had been cleared away, she explained what she could do and what she would expect to receive. She could give Mrs. Whitehand the opportunity of meeting practically any one she wished, and she could repeat and again repeat that opportunity. She could bring people to Mrs. Whitehand’s house, and within limits get them to invite her to theirs. But more than that, she frankly60 admitted she could not do.
‘I can’t make them your friends,’ she said. ‘I can only make them your acquaintances. The other depends on you. You must show yourself useful or charming or striking in some way, if you want more than just to go to balls and dinner-parties. Luckily in London we are very hungry, so that you can always feed people, and very poor, so that you can always tip people, and very dull, so that you can always amuse people.’
‘I see: I quite see that,’ said Mrs. Whitehand.
Madge felt that she understood: that it was worth while explaining.
‘I’m sure you will forgive my plain speaking,’ she said, ‘but it is never any use being vague.{174} And there’s a lot of luck about it. Sometimes a very stupid woman “arrives” and a very clever agreeable one doesn’t, and the Lord knows why. I should be quite American do you know, if I were you; Americans are taking well just now. About—well, why should I beat about the bush?—about what I am to receive for my trouble. I imagine you don’t want my house in the least for the three months after July, and I am willing to take a good deal of trouble for your renting it then. And when some more rent is due, I think I had better tell you, hadn’t I? I am not greedy, I am only very poor.’
Now no climber could possibly have made a better beginning than this. Sarah Whitehand could not have chosen a more admirable godmother, and though she was lucky in having hit on precisely61 the right one, she had shown true perpendicularity62 in having gone to the right class. She had aimed at the best and hit it, and in the three months that followed she continued to show a discretion63 that bore out the early promise of her talents. She neither gave herself airs, nor was she grovellingly64 humble65, she merely enjoyed herself enormously, and since of all social gifts that is the most popular, she rapidly mounted. She threw herself, with Lady Newgate’s sanction,{175} into artistic66 circles, and firmly annexed67 as her mascot68 the chief dancer of the Russian ballet. Unlike poor horizontal Mrs. Howard-Britten, with her disappointing Herr Grossesnoise, she made it quite clear that when she asked a party to meet a bevy69 of Russian dancers that party was surely going to see the bevy dance, which it did quite delightfully70 under the stimulus71 of enormous fees. She did not waste her quails72 and champagne73 on unremunerative guests, or guests who so far from helping74 her would only hinder her, but followed Lady Newgate’s directions precisely as to whom she should ask, and very good directions they were.
She had other modes of access as well. She flattered grossly or delicately as the occasion demanded. When she saw that some one liked to be drenched75 in flattery she had bucketsful of it ready. At other times she confined herself to telling So-and-so’s friends how lovely So-and-so was looking, or how brilliant So-and-so was. This method she chiefly adopted to those of Lady Newgate’s friends who had somewhat unwillingly76 come to her house, and plentiful77 applications of these gratifying assurances usually had their effect sooner or later, for Sarah Whitehand knew that nobody is insensible to flattery, if (and here lay{176} the virtue) the proper brand properly administered was supplied. Sometimes the case required study: it was no use conveying to a beautiful woman the flattery of acknowledging her beauty: you had to find out something on which she secretly prided herself, her tact78 or her want of tact, her charming manners or her absence of manners, her toes or her teeth, and make little hypodermic injections in the right place. Then again there were people who in spite of all allurements79 would have nothing to do with her. After two or three unsuccessful direct assaults, she would attempt that no more, but, just as she was outflanking New York by laying siege to London, outflank those obdurate80 folk by laying siege to their friends. She was infinitely81 patient over these operations, and nibbled82 her way round them, until they were cut off, and found themselves devoid83 of all friends save such as were friends of the accomplished84 Sarah. By patience, by good humour and by her own enjoyment85 she moved steadily86 and rapidly upwards87 on branches that she gilded88 beforehand. She often thought about Nittie Vandercrump screaming away in New York, and even adopted a modified version of her yells of pleasure. These she gave vent16 to when dull people, who for some reason mattered,{177} told her long stupid stories, and found that they had achieved, for the first time in their lives, a brilliant and startling success.
Naturally she made quantities of mistakes. Occasionally a man at her table would find in his neighbour a woman with whom he had not been on speaking terms for years, or again, she solemnly introduced Bob Crawley to the wife he had divorced a year before, and immediately afterwards to the woman concerning whom his wife might have divorced him the year before that. Nor could she at first grasp the fact that a Duchess perhaps did not matter at all, and that Mrs. Smith mattered very much, and she had to drop the Duchess and smooth down Mrs. Smith. But these were mere22 childish stumbles, and having picked herself up she again clung tightly with one hand to her godmother and with the other to her mascot, the Russian dancer.
And all the time while she was so nimbly climbing, she and Petropopoloffski were sitting on a great egg which was to be hatched in the autumn, when London would be full again for the session. Russian ballet this year was the rage to the exclusion89 of all other rages, and the great egg was no less than a further six-weeks season of it, financed and engineered by Sarah. Not until{178} when late in July the egg was, so to speak, announced, did any one, even her godmother, know that it was she who had laid it, and she who had Petropopoloffski in her pocket, and she who had taken the Duke of Kent’s theatre for it, and she who had arranged to have the dress-circle and pit taken away and rows of boxes substituted, and she, finally, who had taken thirty-seven boxes herself, so that only through her favour could anybody engage them. It was a great, a brilliant stroke, hazardous90 perhaps, but then everybody wanted to see Russian ballet so much that they would not stick at being indebted to her for their boxes. But it came off: within a couple of days of the subscription91 list being opened, all boxes not reserved by her had been let, and she began most cordially to allow applicants92 to have some of hers. Very wisely, she gratified no private slights by refusing them, she only made friends by granting them. She kept just two or three of the best, in case of emergencies.
And so she goes on from height to height. Mr. Whitehand was duly sent for in the succeeding spring, and sat entranced for a month, as in a dream of content, in this Valhalla of the gods. But he found he could not stand much of the rarefied air at a time, and so bought a large place{179} in the country, where in leather gaiters he feels like an English squire93, and has revolutionized all the sanitary94 arrangements of the house. And when Nittie came to London, as she did during the summer, and screamed a welcome to her darling Sally, her darling Sally was very wise about it, and instead of kicking her down, which she might easily have done, she gave her a leg-up by asking her to a particularly dazzling dinner-party and being quite kind to her. She does not see much of her, but always treats her with the respect and pity due to a poor relation. There is no more climbing to be done here, and for a change next autumn she means to go downstairs to New York and see how they are all getting on in the kitchen.
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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imperviousness
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| 不透性；不通透性；不透水 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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brook
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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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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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52
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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54
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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58
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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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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perpendicularity
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| n.垂直，直立；垂直度 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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grovellingly
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| 卑下的，奴颜婢膝的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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mascot
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| n.福神，吉祥的东西 | |
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bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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quails
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| 鹌鹑( quail的名词复数 )； 鹌鹑肉 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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allurements
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| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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84
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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85
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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92
applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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93
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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