Peter’s dinner at the Ritz was no dinner-party, and there were but three young men, of whom he was one, and their hostess who assembled in the Yawning-place. People always yawned there; they were either waiting for somebody to come, or they were waiting for somebody to go away....
His hostess to-night was the perennial1 Mrs. Trentham, with whom a party of herself and three young men was a favourite form of entertainment. She always professed2 a coquettish contrition3 at not having been able to get some girls to meet her young men—which, indeed, she had been quite wonderfully unable to do, since it never occurred to her to take the preliminary step of asking them, and no nice girl would come to dine with Mrs. Trentham without being asked. So the girls, not being asked, stayed away, and Mrs. Trentham apologized.
She was considerably4 older than the rest of her youthful assemblage; but she looked almost as young as any of them, and might charitably have been supposed to be a sister, or a wife, or something. She had only one real passion in her excited life, and that was to dine as publicly as possible with several young men, sending her husband, to his great contentment, to amuse himself comfortably at his club. There he talked politics and played Bridge, and the very number of these public entertainments on the part of his wife, and the diversity of the youths who partook of them, were guarantee against any{43} breath of scandal sullying herself or anybody else. With perfect justice, nobody believed anything against her; yet this delightful5 immunity6 from gossip rather annoyed her. But, in order to give colour to compromise, she would have been obliged to descend7 to duets in quiet corners, which would have been no fun at all. The loss of publicity8, the loss, too, of the pleasing phenomenon that batch9 after batch of young men, in groups of two or three, so constantly accompanied her to one of the most strategic tables at the Ritz, would not have been compensated10 for by the added chance of scandalous talkings. After all, London was not so violently likely to care what she did, especially since she did not care either, and it was far more agreeable to continue doing what she liked rather than gain an entirely12 spurious loss of reputation by less enjoyable methods. She had a pleasant, prurient13 mind, and her morals were beyond reproach. She called attention to her age, when she was with the young, in a somewhat excessive manner, and often alluded14 to her beautiful hair, which had been grey before she was thirty. “Such an old woman as me,” was an ungrammatical phrase which she often affected15, and this was a preventive measure against anybody else thinking of such a thing. Her favourite subject of conversation was love.
Mrs. Trentham was not really quite so silly as she sounded, though her immense sprightliness16 often seemed to plunge17 her into the nethermost18 depths of fatuousness19. During the war she had taken to dressing20 in the uniform of a nurse, which she discovered suited her, though, for fear of witnessing distressing21 sights, she kept well away from hospitals; since then, having realized the decorative22 value of black and{44} white, she had adopted a garb23 which seemed to indicate that she was a widow, though not quite recently bereaved24. An occasional bright note of colour in her hair or round her charming waist seemed to have forgotten about her widowhood and was extremely becoming.... So garbed25, so minded, she awaited Peter, who was the last of her conspicuous26 party of young men. He was certainly late for her appointed hour, but she did not dislike that as the Yawning-place was full, and, instead of scolding him, she had her usual apologetic greetings volubly ready.
“My dear, you will be furious with me, I know,” she said, “but I simply couldn’t get hold of any girls, so you and Charlie and Tommy will just have to put up with an old woman until we go to the opera, and then you will breathe loud sighs of relief, and I shall see you no more. Why are you so late, Peter? Whom have you been flirting27 with?”
“My father and my mother,” said Peter. “He has just finished the largest picture in the world.”
“How sweet of him! Ah, they have brought some cocktails29 at last.”
She waited till the servant was well out of hearing.
“But how stupid the waiter is,” she said. “I am sure I told him to bring three not four. Shall I taste it? Shall I like it, do you think?”
It seemed not too optimistic to hope that she would, for, otherwise, she would long ago have ceased not only tasting the fourth cocktail30 which she was sure she had not ordered, but consuming it so completely that the strip of lemon-peel overbalanced against the tip of her pretty nose.
“My dear, how strong!” she exclaimed. “I feel perfectly31 tipsy, and one of you must give me your arm, as if you were a nephew or something if I{45} stagger or reel. Let us go in to dinner at once. I promised Ella we would get to Mrs. Wardour’s box by the beginning of the opera.”
“Who is Mrs. Wardour?” asked Charlie Harman.
“Oh, quite new,” said Mrs. Trentham. “Hardly anyone has seen her yet. Rich, fabulously32 rich. Her husband was one of the hugest profiteers—not eggs at fourpence, but steamers at a quarter of a million. He bought up everything that floats and sold it to the Government, and most of it got sunk. He died a couple of years ago. Too sad.”
“More about her, please,” said Peter.
“I haven’t seen her yet, my dear, but Ella Thirlmere is being her godmother—sponsor, you know—and she asked me to take people to her box and her dinners and her dances. Her name’s Lucy: it would be. I shall begin by calling her Lucy almost immediately. There’s no time nowadays to get to know people. You have to pretend to know them intimately almost the moment you set eyes on them.”
“And pretend not to know them afterwards, if necessary,” said Peter.
May Trentham gave a hasty glance round the room and, becoming aware that quite a sufficient number of people were looking at her and her party, slapped the back of Peter’s hand with the tips of her fingers, and gave a scream of laughter to show what a tremendously amusing time she was having.
“You naughty boy!” she said. “Is he not cynical34 about Lucy? I shan’t talk to you any more. Tommy, my dear, tell me what you’ve been doing. You look flushed. I believe you’re in love.”
“No. I’ve been playing squash,” said Tommy.
“What is squash? I believe it’s one of your{46} horrid35 new words and means flirting. Who is she?”
“She is Charlie. At least, I was playing squash with Charlie,” said Tommy, with laborious36 precision. “He didn’t like it.”
Charlie fingered two little tails of blond hair that grew directly below his nostrils37 and formed his moustache. Otherwise his face was completely feminine—plain and pink and plump. He gesticulated a good deal with his hands, flapping and dabbing38 with them.
“Odious game,” he said, showing a great many teeth between his red lips. “You go on hitting a ball against a putrid39 wall until you’re too tired to hit it any more, and then Tommy says ‘One love.’ When you’ve done that fifteen times, he says ‘Game,’ and then you begin another one. I hoped I should never hear of it again.”
“You shan’t, my dear; but don’t be such a cross-patch. I know you’re annoyed with me for not getting you some pretty girl to talk to. You must talk to Peter. He’s in disgrace with me. Oh, Peter, is it true about Nellie Heaton’s engagement?”
“Perfectly,” said Peter.
“Then why aren’t you broken-hearted? I don’t believe any of you young men have got hearts nowadays.”
“That accounts for their not being broken,” said Peter.
It was time to laugh loudly again in order to remind the rest of the diners what a brilliant time she was having, and May Trentham did this.
“There he goes again!” she said. “Is he not shocking? My dear, have you had a dreadful scene with her?{47}”
“No. I only had tea with her.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you weren’t desperately40 in love with her. But never mind. I will find some other girl for you, who will adore you so violently that you will lose your heart to her, though you say you haven’t got one. She shall be rich and lovely, and we shall all be frantically41 jealous of her. And you shall both call me Aunt May, because I have brought you together.”
“Thank you, Aunt May,” said Peter. “Go on about her, please.”
“No, I’ve talked to you long enough. Tommy is feeling left out. When the opera is over, by the way, I want you all to come on to Ella Thirlmere’s dance. I promised to bring you all. Mrs. Wardour is sure to be coming, and she will certainly have plenty of motor-cars to take us. Oh, there is that marvellous Spanish boxer42, is it not, dining alone with Ella. How gentle and kind he looks! Darling Ella! I wonder if she will have six rounds with him in the middle of her dance. I would certainly back her: look at her chest. But how daring of her to dine with him here! They say he marries again after each of his fights and settles all the money he has won on his new wife. But, after all, I suppose it’s just as daring of me to dine with three such attractive young men as for her to dine with just one Solomon like that!”
Tommy puzzled over this for a moment. He was very good-looking, but there was no other reason for him.
“Solomon?” he asked.
“Yes, my dear; think of his wives. I was talking to Anthony Braille to-day, who makes all those wonderful tables about population, and what encourages{48} and hinders it. He said the only chance for England was to close all the music-hall bars and introduce polygamy. Every Englishman, after this dreadful war—you know I was a nurse during the war—must have fifty children a year for two years—or did he say two children a year for fifty years?—in order to bring up the population again to its proper level. It was all most interesting—if he only didn’t stutter so much!”
“He seems to have stuttered out the main facts,” said Peter.
“Oh, I couldn’t tell a young man half the things he said to me. We ought all to be Patagonians and polygamists. The birth-rate among Patagonians is colossal43. They behead all women of the age of thirty-five who aren’t married, and all bachelors at the age of forty. It has something to do with eugenics.”
The intoxication44 of a restaurant now crowded with people had gained complete ascendancy45 over Peter’s hostess. She never felt quiet and contented46 unless she was surrounded by a host of friends, acquaintances, and people she knew by sight, and had to shout at the top of her voice in order to be heard above the roar of other conversations and the blare of a band. It was equally necessary for the establishment of this tranquil47 frame of mind that several young men, and, if possible, no women, should be with her, and that she should constantly be convulsed by shrieks48 of laughter, and should have both her elbows on the table. A finer nuance49 in success was that she must appear wholly absorbed in the brilliance50 of her own table, and quite unconscious of the hubbub51 round her, though presently, when she got up, she would seem to awake to the fact that she was in a crowded restaurant, and would blow kisses all over the room,{49} and have dozens of little smiles and words for all those whose position between her and the door she had unerringly noted52. Just a sentence or two for each, reminding her “my dears” of a meeting to-morrow, or a meeting yesterday with a phrase of flattery and a bit of whispered scandal and the conclusion: “I must fly; those boys will be so cross with me if I keep them waiting. Meet you at dearest Ella’s? Yes? Lovely!”... All this was faithfully performed on her part, and her face, with its pretty little features all bunched together in the middle of it, like the markings in a pansy, had expanded and contracted again sufficient times before she reached the door of the restaurant to enable a weary conclave53 to express itself as it waited for her.
“Parsifal, too,” said Charlie. “Thank God we’ve missed the first act. Aged54 stunt—flower-maidens and grails. Can’t we get away, Peter? Come home with me. Say we’re busy at the F.O. German complications. Bolshevists on the Rhine.”
Tommy stood first on one leg scratching a slim calf55 with the other instep, and then on the other leg scratching in a corresponding manner.
“You simply can’t,” he said. “How am I to deal with her and Lucy? And Parsifal?”
“Polygamy and Patagonians,” said Peter, with a vague remembrance of the preposterous56 conversation that had garlanded their dinner. “Flirt28, Tommy. Can you flirt? Hold hands. Sigh. Beam. Can’t you manage it?”
“No,” said Tommy.
“Then Tommy and I will go away,” said Charlie. “After all, she doesn’t want us, except as a stage crowd. She wants you most, Peter. I say, I like your studs. Who?{50}”
“Nobody. I liked them, too, so I got them. But we’ve all got to go on. After all, we’ve had dinner.”
“All the more reason for not going on,” said Charlie.
“That’s no good. It doesn’t pay. Besides, she’s awfully57 decent——”
“Don’t be priggish, Peter. I say, is Nellie really going to marry Philip Beaumont? Do you mind?”
This atrocious conversation was interrupted by the sprightly58 tripping advent59 of their hostess, who put her fingers in her ears, which she knew were “shell-like,” as she passed through the direct blast of the band, and consoled them for her want of appreciation60 of their professional functions by distributing more of her little smiles.
“Now I know you are all going to scold me,” she said, “because I’ve kept you waiting. But there were so many dears who insisted on my having a word with them. They nearly tore my frock off. Let’s all cram61 into one taxi, and I will sit bodkin. And after Ella’s dance we’ll all go on to Margie Clifford’s. She specially11 told me to bring all of you, and scold you well first for not having talked to her on your way out. I don’t know what everybody will think when I appear at the Ritz and the Opera, and two dances with the same young men. I shall have to tell my darling Bob that the Morning Post hasn’t come, or he’ll storm at me. What a lovely white lie.”
There flashed through Peter’s consciousness at that moment an insane wonder as to what would happen if he said calmly and clearly and genuinely, “My good woman, who cares? As for the compromising young men who accompany you, they are all dying to get away, and only the debt of the{51} excellent dinner you gave us, of which I reminded them, prevents us from doing so.” There was the truth of the matter, and it was all rather mean and miserable62. Her guests were spending the evening with her and ministering to her hopeless delight in daring situations simply because she had, on her side, administered the nosebag. They consented, with a grudging63 sense of honourable64 engagement, to plough their way in her wake merely because she had fed them. If she had asked them severally or collectively to drop in after dinner, in the way of a friend, for conversation and soda65 water, none of them would have dreamed of gratifying her. And now, when they had fed deliciously at her expense, they would all have preferred to go back to Charlie’s rooms in Jermyn Street, or to Tommy’s flat (Peter’s house was handicapped by the presence of parents), rather than trail along to Parsifal, and to a dance, and yet another dance. The dances, perhaps, might be amusing, for there would be girls there, and some sitting about on stairs, and some sliding about on slippery floors, and an irresponsible atmosphere, and certainly some more champagne66. You had to get through the night somehow, and nowadays you could smoke while you were dancing, and you needn’t dance much. The nuisance—rather a serious one—was that Mrs. Trentham would be there all the time, screaming and dabbing at them to show how amusing and brilliant they all were, keeping them firmly planted round her while she told them that they must go away and dance and make themselves agreeable to others rather than hang round an old woman like her, and continually whistling them back if they attempted to do anything of the sort. She would take up a position{52} where she could most advantageously be seen and heard, and get them all plastered about her, swiftly talking to each in turn, so that he could not possibly go away as long as she so volubly told him to. She had that artless art to perfection; no one had such a gift for making young men adhesive67 as she, while all the time she was scolding them for wasting their time on an old woman. There was no semblance68 of sentiment in these proceedings69; the entire objective of the man?uvres was to demonstrate to the world that these boys insisted on crowding round her and not leaving her. That was her notion of a successful evening, and since they had signed their bond by eating her dinner, she managed to exact the full pound of flesh.
The curtain went down on the first act of Parsifal precisely70 as Mrs. Trentham led her shrill71 way into one of the two boxes that bore the name of Mrs. Wardour. She tripped in, all feather fan and stockings, like some elegant exotic hen, proudly conscious of the brood of most presentable chicks, though not of her rearing, which followed her. The house at that moment started into light again, and black against the oblong of brightness were the backs of two female heads, both of which turned round at the click of the opened door. One of them had a great tiara on, sitting firmly on a desert of pale sandy hair.
May Trentham advanced with both hands held out.
“My dear, how late we are,” she said. “You must scold these boys, for they kept me in such shrieks of laughter at dinner that I had no idea of the time. Dearest Ella has so often talked to me about you; always asking: ‘Haven’t I met Mrs. Wardour yet? Was it possible I had not met her great friend Lucy Wardour?’ Charmed!{53}”
In the hard light of the theatre, Mrs. Wardour’s face appeared to her to be quite flat; the shadows on it looked like dark smudges applied72 to the surface with a brush, rather than markings derived73 from projections74 and depressions. This apparition75 of a diamond-crowned oval of meaningless flesh was slightly embarrassing, and she turned to the second occupant of the box. There, in the younger face, she saw what Lucy might, perhaps, once have been like, before the years had flattened76 her out. Obviously this was a daughter, though Ella Thirlmere had altogether omitted to mention such a thing. Then, with her rather short-sighted eyes growing accustomed to the staring light, Mrs. Trentham observed that her first impression of her hostess’s face was an illusion, though founded on fact; just as when the figure of a man resolves itself into a hat and coat hanging on the wall. There was nothing, in fact, abnormal about Mrs. Wardour’s countenance77: it was just blankish. She had large cheeks of uniform surface, a nose of small elevation78, no eyebrows79, and eyes set in very shallow sockets80. Then another shadow came on to her face; but this time, without delay, May Trentham saw that it was her mouth opening. When she had opened it, she spoke81, but she did not conduct both processes simultaneously82.
“Well, I’m pleased to see you,” she said; “but there are so many friends of Lady Thirlmere—Ella, I should say; she told me always to say Ella—there are so many of Ella’s friends visiting me to-night that I don’t quite seem to know your name.”
May Trentham felt that her brain was giving way. Here was a perfectly empty box, except for Mrs. Wardour and her daughter, and yet here was Mrs. Wardour assuring her that so many friends of Ella{54} were here.... Where were the friends? Were they invisible? Was the box in reality crowded with unseen presences?...
“I’m Mrs. Trentham,” she said, clinging firmly to that sure and certain fact. “May Trentham. Ella told me you would expect me.”
Mrs. Wardour appeared to be making an effort of recollection. This, in a few moments, seemed successful.
“That’s correct,” she said. “I remember; and this is my daughter Silvia.”
For a moment her face slipped off its sheath of meaninglessness, and something homely83 and kindly84 and simple gleamed in it.
“I’ve got two boxes to-night, Mrs. Trentham,” she said. “This and the next, as Lady Thirlmere—Ella—so kindly sent along such a quantity of her friends. That’s what it is; and so Silvia and I (didn’t we, Silvia?) we left the other box, seeing that it was so full, and came in here, for, naturally, I wanted to put my guests where they could see the play, and Silvia and I, we wanted to see, too. Mrs. Trentham was it? And I’m sure I’m very glad to see you and your young friends. I should like them all to be introduced to me and Silvia.”
Charlie had hung up his hat and coat during this amazing conversation, and now came forward.
“How-de-do?” he said.
“I haven’t caught the name yet,” said Mrs. Wardour. The sheath had gone back over her face again.
“This is Lord Charles Harmer,” said Mrs. Trentham.
“Indeed. The son of the Marquis of Nairn?” asked Mrs. Wardour.
Charlie opened his mouth very wide.{55}
“Brother!” he exclaimed, as if he were saying “Murder!” on the Lyceum stage.
Tommy and Peter were less important; the latter, when the introductions were over, found himself sitting between Silvia and her mother. On the further side of Mrs. Wardour was May Trentham between the other two young men and already absorbed in identifying the occupants of boxes opposite and blowing kisses.
“There! There’s just room for all of us,” said Mrs. Wardour, “without squeezing each other. We were too squeezed in the other box, weren’t we Silvia? There’s six in the other box, and now we’re six here. Let me think; there’s Lord Poole and there’s Lady Poole. There’s Mrs. Heaton, and there’s Miss Heaton, and there’s Mr. Philip Beaumont. That’s five. Miss Heaton is engaged to Mr. Beaumont; isn’t that it, Silvia? I want to get it clear.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Peter.
“Indeed! Do you know Miss Heaton?” asked Mrs. Wardour.
“Yes, very well,” said he.
“That’s what’s so pleasant,” said she. “Just to sit here and know everybody. That’s what we want, Silvia, isn’t it? Just to sit and know everybody. But that only makes five. Who’s the other one? His name began with F, and he was very fat.”
“Perhaps that was his name,” said Peter. He was beginning to enjoy himself; the whole thing was such complete nonsense. What kept up the high level of it was that Mrs. Wardour replied with seriousness:
“No; if his name had been Fat, I should have remembered it,” she said. “It wasn’t Mr. Fat, nor{56} Lord Fat. He seemed to know everybody, too. He just sat there and knew everybody.”
From Peter’s other side, where Silvia sat, there came some little tremor85 of a laugh, hardly audible, and turning, he saw that her face dimpled with amusement. It was singularly sexless; the curve of her jaw86, the lines of her mouth were more like a boy’s than a girl’s; boyish, too, was her sideways cross-legged attitude. If she was laughing at her mother’s remark, her amusement was clearly of the most genial87 kindliness88.
Mrs. Wardour continued in a perfectly even voice that almost intoned the words, so void was it of inflection.
“It’s a pity your party has missed so much of the opera,” she said. “There’s been a lot of pretty music; some of it reminded me of being in church and hymns89. It’ll seem quite strange going to a dance afterwards. A lot of knights90 singing hymns. Parsifal, you know. Some say it’s the best opera Wagner ever wrote.”
This time Silvia certainly laughed, and again her laugh had not the smallest hint of satirical enjoyment91; she was just amused. Peter found himself, though he had scarcely yet glanced at her, somehow understanding her. He recognized in her amusement all that he himself failed to feel with regard to his father’s cartoons and his mother’s readings in Bradshaw. He knew intuitively that Silvia had got hold of the right way to regard absurdities92; to see comedy without contempt. Whether she knew it or not (it was quite certain that she did not), she had given him a glimpse, a hint, an enlightenment, not only of what she was, but of what he was not. Looking at her now directly for the first time, his{57} handsome face caught some reflection of her boyish brightness.
“And what do you think of Parsifal?” he asked.
She raised her eyebrows.
“How can I tell?” she asked. “I never saw an opera before.”
“I envy you,” said Peter.
“Why? For not having seen one, or because I am at last seeing one?” she asked.
Peter, as usual, found himself wanting to make a good impression. If he had been in a lift with a crossing-sweeper he would certainly have tried to make the crossing-sweeper like him, and have exerted his wits to hit upon something which the crossing-sweeper would think to be admirable, even though on arriving at the next floor he would never see him again. He quickly decided93 now that the girl would not admire mere33 drivel.... She happened to want to know what he envied her for.
“For both,” he said. “For getting a new impression. That includes both. You mustn’t have seen an opera before, and you must be seeing one now.”
She looked at him with perfectly unshadowed frankness.
“I believe you meant the first,” she said. “I believe when you said you envied me, that you meant I was lucky in not having spent a quantity of boring evenings.”
“In any case, I don’t mean that now,” said Peter.
“Ah, then you did. Why do you mean it no longer?”
Peter found himself criticizing her. A conversation between the acts of an opera was not meant to degenerate94 into a catechism. You talked in order{58} to mask the ticking of the minutes. But as he was in for a catechism, it was better to be an agreeable candidate.
“Why?” he asked. “Because I expect that you never spend boring evenings. Probably you are not a person who is bored.”
Clearly, as he suspected, she was not going to commit herself to any statement without consideration, even when so violently trivial a subject was under discussion. Her eyebrows, much darker than the shade of her hair, like Nellie’s, pulled themselves a little downwards95 and inwards, so that they nearly met.
“Oh, I could easily be bored,” she said. “A lot of bored people would infect me and make me bored.”
She leaned a little forward towards him, again with that boyish appeal.
“Please don’t be bored,” she said. “Be interested and amused. Make yourself into a sort of disinfectant to protect me.”
“Is there an epidemic96?” he asked.
“Yes; the place is reeking97 with it. My mother, for instance, detests98 music. Isn’t it darling of her?”
“How very odd of her, then——” he began.
He stopped because, in some emphatic99, intangible way, the girl retreated from the platform of intimacy100 on to which she had stepped. She moved her chair an inch or two away from him, hitching101 it back with her foot, but that was only a symbol of her change of attitude. What to Peter made the significance of that small steering102 was a certain quenching103 of light in her face, as if, over it, she had put up some mask of herself that might easily have been mistaken for her, if the beholder104 had not, for a glimpse or two, seen her unmasked. She shifted from the personal{59} ground on which, for a minute, they had met, and became Miss Silvia Wardour, generalizing in small talk, in the usual imbecile and social manner. She also became much more feminine....
“I wonder how many people in the house, who have come to hear Wagner, really dislike it,” she said. “Probably we all of us like some species of noise, and dislike another species of noise. If you like the Beethoven noise, you probably dislike the Wagner noise. Only nobody will say so. They come to look at each other.”
She had carried back the conversation on to the personal platform again, as if she was sorry to have slipped off it so suddenly. But she carried it on to another part of the platform. Quite clearly she did not intend to discuss her mother’s presence at the opera.
“Tell me,” she said. “What sort of noise do you really like? This or somebody else’s?”
Peter wondered for the moment whether she was to prove to be the earnest sort of girl, who, whatever you said, insisted on discussing your random105 statements, until you contradicted yourself (which usually happened quite soon), and then, vouchsafing106 a gleam of daylight, found an explanation for them in order that you might be encouraged to entangle107 yourself further. The earnest girl, the inquisitorial girl; he did not like that type.... They gave you pencils and pieces of paper after dinner and made you write acrostics; they took letters out of a box and gave you eight of them, from which you had to make a word; they divided the guests up into equal numbers, told them that this was “Clumps,” and that two people were going to leave the room and guess whatever had been thought of. These were their lighter,{60} intellectual motions, and you feverishly108 played “Clumps” in order to avoid intolerable abstract discussions. Yet Silvia had not the sleuth-hound expression that usually accompanied these hunters after intellect.
“What a searching question,” he said. “But, really, I’m omnivorous109 about noises. I like the noise I’m listening to. I like it particularly.”
There was not in her face the smallest consciousness that he might conceivably be alluding110 to the fact that she was talking to him. She let her eyes sweep across the crowded theatre.
“That noise?” she asked. “All those people talking? I love it, too. Oh, wouldn’t it be interesting to be somebody else for a minute, and know what he meant, what he felt like when he said anything?”
Clearly she had used the masculine gender111 quite unconsciously. Peter’s answer, on the other hand, was deliberate.
“Yes, I should love to know what she feels like, even over the most trivial speech,” he said.
Silvia dropped on to this with a precision that only showed how complete her own unconsciousness had been.
“She?” she asked.
“Certainly ‘she,’” he said. “I know well enough the kind of thing which men feel like.”
She leaned forward again.
“Oh, tell me about that,” she said.
Certainly they were together on the personal platform again. Peter was quite at home there; his passion for making a good impression on new acquaintances, his rather uncanny skill in extracting intimacy from them, gave him a confident gait on{61} these boards. He felt that this queer, attractive girl did not in the least wish to be talked to in the ordinary, nonsensical manner. In the gabble of the ballroom113, and in the more intimate duologue on the stairs outside it, girls, the generality of them, liked to be told that men thought exclusively about them, and spent their waking and sleeping moments in the contemplation of their divinity and pricelessness. Nellie, of course, was an exception, for between them there certainly was some peculiar114 bond of understanding; but the majority of girls, so ran his indolent and incurious creed115, just wanted to be told that they were too priceless for anything, and some wanted to be kissed. It was all nonsense; they knew that as well as he did; but such was the inherited instinct, or, if you wished to be precise, the inherited instinct acting112 on the new conditions. But he knew that Silvia was not like that; there was some eager, friendly quality about her. She was not quite the normal girl of the ballroom; nor again, was she the earnest girl, who wanted to explore your brains and prove that you hadn’t got any. She seemed merely interested in the topic, not because it would lead to a demonstration116 of her cleverness.
“Men?” he said. “What do men feel? They are as vain as peacocks, and they think entirely about themselves. They think of you as an inferior sex designed to amuse them.”
“Ah, the darlings!” said Silvia, quite unexpectedly.
The great pervading117 brilliance of the lights went out. A row of veiled illuminations only remained in front of the red confectionery of the curtain, against which the conductor’s head was silhouetted118. Silvia, after her surprising exclamation119, drew her chair more{62} into the corner in order to enable Peter to pull his up to the front of the box.
“Klingsor’s Castle,” said Mrs. Wardour, with a final desperate glance at her programme. “Who is Klingsor, Silvia?”
Peter wondered whether he could whisper, “Who is Silvia?”; but decided against it.
“A magician, darling,” said Silvia, with the same underlying120 bubble of amusement.
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perennial
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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3
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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4
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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5
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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6
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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7
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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8
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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9
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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10
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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11
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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12
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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13
prurient
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| adj.好色的，淫乱的 | |
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14
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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16
sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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17
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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18
nethermost
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| adj.最下面的 | |
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19
fatuousness
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| n.愚昧，昏庸，蠢 | |
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20
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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21
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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22
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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23
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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24
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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25
garbed
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| v.（尤指某类人穿的特定）服装，衣服，制服( garb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
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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27
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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28
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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29
cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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30
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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31
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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32
fabulously
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| 难以置信地，惊人地 | |
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33
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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34
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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35
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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36
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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37
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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38
dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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39
putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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40
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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41
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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42
boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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43
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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44
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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45
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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46
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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47
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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48
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
nuance
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| n.(意义、意见、颜色)细微差别 | |
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50
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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51
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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52
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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53
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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54
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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55
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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56
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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57
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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58
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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59
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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60
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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61
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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62
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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63
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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64
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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65
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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66
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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67
adhesive
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| n.粘合剂；adj.可粘着的，粘性的 | |
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68
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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69
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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70
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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71
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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72
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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73
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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74
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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75
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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76
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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77
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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78
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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79
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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80
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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81
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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82
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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83
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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84
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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85
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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86
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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87
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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88
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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89
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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90
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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91
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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92
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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93
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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94
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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95
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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96
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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97
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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98
detests
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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99
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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100
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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101
hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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102
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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103
quenching
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| 淬火，熄 | |
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104
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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105
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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106
vouchsafing
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的现在分词 )；允诺 | |
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107
entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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108
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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109
omnivorous
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| adj.杂食的 | |
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110
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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111
gender
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| n.（生理上的）性，（名词、代词等的）性 | |
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112
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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113
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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114
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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115
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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116
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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117
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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118
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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119
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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120
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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