When Orville Platt ate a soft-boiled egg he concentrated on it. He treated it as a great adventure. Which, after all, it is. Few adjuncts of our daily life contain the element of chance that is to be found in a three-minute breakfast egg.
This was Orville Platt's method of attack: First, he chipped off the top, neatly2. Then he bent3 forward and subjected it to a passionate4 and relentless5 scrutiny6. Straightening—preparatory to plunging7 his spoon therein—he flapped his right elbow. It wasn't exactly a flap; it was a pass between a hitch8 and a flap, and presented external evidence of a mental state. Orville Platt always gave that little preliminary jerk when he was contemplating9 a step, or when he was moved, or argumentative. It was a trick as innocent as it was maddening.
Terry Platt had learned to look for that flap—they had been married four years—to look for it, and to hate it with a morbid10, unreasoning hate. That flap of the elbow was tearing Terry Platt's nerves into raw, bleeding fragments.
Her fingers were clenched11 tightly under the table, now. She was breathing unevenly12. "If he does that again," she told herself, "if he flaps again when he opens the second egg, I'll scream. I'll scream. I'll scream! I'll sc—"
He had scooped13 the first egg into his cup. Now he picked up the second, chipped it, concentrated, straightened, then—up went the elbow, and down, with the accustomed little flap.
The tortured nerves snapped. Through the early morning quiet of Wetona, Wisconsin, hurtled the shrill14, piercing shriek15 of Terry Platt's hysteria.
"Terry! For God's sake! What's the matter!"
Orville Platt dropped the second egg, and his spoon. The egg yolk16 trickled17 down his plate. The spoon made a clatter18 and flung a gay spot of yellow on the cloth. He started toward her.
Terry, wild-eyed, pointed19 a shaking finger at him. She was laughing, now, uncontrollably. "Your elbow! Your elbow!"
"Elbow?" He looked down at it, bewildered; then up, fright in his face. "What's the matter with it?"
She mopped her eyes. Sobs20 shook her. "You f-f-flapped it."
"F-f-f—" The bewilderment in Orville Platt's face gave way to anger. "Do you mean to tell me that you screeched21 like that because my—because I moved my elbow?"
"Yes."
His anger deepened and reddened to fury. He choked. He had started from his chair with his napkin in his hand. He still clutched it. Now he crumpled22 it into a wad and hurled23 it to the centre of the table, where it struck a sugar bowl, dropped back, and uncrumpled slowly, reprovingly. "You—you—" Then bewilderment closed down again like a fog over his countenance24. "But why? I can't see—"
"Because it—because I can't stand it any longer. Flapping. This is what you do. Like this."
And she did it. Did it with insulting fidelity25, being a clever mimic26.
"Well, all I can say is you're crazy, yelling like that, for nothing."
"It isn't nothing."
"Isn't, huh? If that isn't nothing, what is?" They were growing incoherent. "What d'you mean, screeching27 like a maniac28? Like a wild woman? The neighbours'll think I've killed you. What d'you mean, anyway!"
"I mean I'm tired of watching it, that's what. Sick and tired."
"Y'are, huh? Well, young lady, just let me tell you something—"
He told her. There followed one of those incredible quarrels, as sickening as they are human, which can take place only between two people who love each other; who love each other so well that each knows with cruel certainty the surest way to wound the other; and who stab, and tear, and claw at these vulnerable spots in exact proportion to their love.
Ugly words. Bitter words. Words that neither knew they knew flew between them like sparks between steel striking steel.
From him—"Trouble with you is you haven30't got enough to do. That's the trouble with half you women. Just lay around the house, rotting. I'm a fool, slaving on the road to keep a good-for-nothing—"
"I suppose you call sitting around hotel lobbies slaving! I suppose the house runs itself! How about my evenings? Sitting here alone, night after night, when you're on the road."
Finally, "Well, if you don't like it," he snarled31, and lifted his chair by the back and slammed it down, savagely32, "if you don't like it, why don't you get out, h'm? Why don't you get out?"
And from her, her eyes narrowed to two slits33, her cheeks scarlet34:
"Why, thanks. I guess I will."
Ten minutes later he had flung out of the house to catch the 8.19 for Manitowoc. He marched down the street, his shoulders swinging rhythmically35 to the weight of the burden he carried—his black leather hand-bag and the shiny tan sample case, battle-scarred, both, from many encounters with ruthless porters and 'bus men and bell boys. For four years, as he left for his semi-monthly trip, he and Terry had observed a certain little ceremony (as had the neighbours). She would stand in the doorway36 watching him down the street, the heavier sample-case banging occasionally at his shin. The depot37 was only three blocks away. Terry watched him with fond, but unillusioned eyes, which proves that she really loved him. He was a dapper, well-dressed fat man, with a weakness for pronounced patterns in suitings, and addicted38 to brown derbies. One week on the road, one week at home. That was his routine. The wholesale39 grocery trade liked Platt, and he had for his customers the fondness that a travelling salesman has who is successful in his territory. Before his marriage to Terry Sheehan his little red address book had been overwhelming proof against the theory that nobody loves a fat man.
Terry, standing40 in the doorway, always knew that when he reached the corner, just where Schroeder's house threatened to hide him from view, he would stop, drop the sample case, wave his hand just once, pick up the sample case and go on, proceeding41 backward for a step or two, until Schroeder's house made good its threat. It was a comic scene in the eyes of the onlooker42, perhaps because a chubby43 Romeo offends the sense of fitness. The neighbours, lurking44 behind their parlour curtains, had laughed at first. But after awhile they learned to look for that little scene, and to take it unto themselves, as if it were a personal thing. Fifteen-year wives whose husbands had long since abandoned flowery farewells used to get a vicarious thrill out of it, and to eye Terry with a sort of envy.
This morning Orville Platt did not even falter45 when he reached Schroeder's corner. He marched straight on, looking steadily46 ahead, the heavy bags swinging from either hand. Even if he had stopped—though she knew he wouldn't—Terry Platt would not have seen him. She remained seated at the disordered breakfast table, a dreadfully still figure, and sinister47; a figure of stone and fire; of ice and flame. Over and over in her mind she was milling the things she might have said to him, and had not. She brewed48 a hundred vitriolic49 cruelties that she might have flung in his face. She would concoct50 one biting brutality51, and dismiss it for a second, and abandon that for a third. She was too angry to cry—a dangerous state in a woman. She was what is known as cold mad, so that her mind was working clearly and with amazing swiftness, and yet as though it were a thing detached; a thing that was no part of her.
She sat thus for the better part of an hour, motionless except for one forefinger52 that was, quite unconsciously, tapping out a popular and cheap little air that she had been strumming at the piano the evening before, having bought it down town that same afternoon. It had struck Orville's fancy, and she had played it over and over for him. Her right forefinger was playing the entire tune53, and something in the back of her head was following it accurately54, though the separate thinking process was going on just the same. Her eyes were bright, and wide, and hot. Suddenly she became conscious of the musical antics of her finger. She folded it in with its mates, so that her hand became a fist. She stood up and stared down at the clutter55 of the breakfast table. The egg—that fateful second egg—had congealed56 to a mottled mess of yellow and white. The spoon lay on the cloth. His coffee, only half consumed, showed tan with a cold grey film over it. A slice of toast at the left of his plate seemed to grin at her with the semi-circular wedge that he had bitten out of it.
Terry stared down at this congealing57 remnant. Then she laughed, a hard, high little laugh, pushed a plate away contemptuously with her hand, and walked into the sitting room. On the piano was the piece of music (Bennie Gottschalk's great song hit, "Hicky Bloo") which she had been playing the night before. She picked it up, tore it straight across, once, placed the pieces back to back and tore it across again. Then she dropped the pieces to the floor.
"You bet I'm going," she said, as though concluding a train of thought. "You just bet I'm going. Right now!"
And Terry went. She went for much the same reason as that given by the ladye of high degree in the old English song—she who had left her lord and bed and board to go with the raggle-taggle gipsies-O! The thing that was sending Terry Platt away was much more than a conjugal58 quarrel precipitated59 by a soft-boiled egg and a flap of the arm. It went so much deeper that if psychology60 had not become a cant61 word we might drag it into the explanation. It went so deep that it's necessary to delve62 back to the days when Theresa Platt was Terry Sheehan to get the real significance of it, and of the things she did after she went.
When Mrs. Orville Platt had been Terry Sheehan she had played the piano, afternoons and evenings, in the orchestra of the Bijou theatre, on Cass street, Wetona, Wisconsin. Any one with a name like Terry Sheehan would, perforce, do well anything she might set out to do. There was nothing of genius in Terry, but there was something of fire, and much that was Irish. The combination makes for what is known as imagination in playing. Which meant that the Watson Team, Eccentric Song and Dance Artists, never needed a rehearsal63 when they played the Bijou. Ruby64 Watson used merely to approach Terry before the Monday performance, sheet-music in hand, and say, "Listen, dearie. We've got some new business I want to wise you to. Right here it goes 'Tum dee-dee dum dee-dee tum dum dum. See? Like that. And then Jim vamps. Get me?"
Terry, at the piano, would pucker65 her pretty brow a moment. Then, "Like this, you mean?"
"That's it! You've got it."
"All right. I'll tell the drum."
She could play any tune by ear, once heard. She got the spirit of a thing, and transmitted it. When Terry played a march number you tapped the floor with your foot, and unconsciously straightened your shoulders. When she played a home-and-mother song that was heavy on the minor66 wail67 you hoped that the man next to you didn't know you were crying (which he probably didn't, because he was weeping, too).
At that time motion pictures had not attained68 their present virulence69. Vaudeville70, polite or otherwise, had not yet been crowded out by the ubiquitous film. The Bijou offered entertainment of the cigar-box tramp variety, interspersed71 with trick bicyclists, soubrettes in slightly soiled pink, trained seals, and Family Fours with lumpy legs who tossed each other about and struck Goldbergian attitudes.
Contact with these gave Terry Sheehan a semi-professional tone. The more conservative of her townspeople looked at her askance. There never had been an evil thing about Terry, but Wetona considered her rather fly. Terry's hair was very black, and she had a fondness for those little, close-fitting scarlet velvet72 turbans. A scarlet velvet turban would have made Martha Washington look fly. Terry's mother had died when the girl was eight, and Terry's father had been what is known as easy-going. A good-natured, lovable, shiftless chap in the contracting business. He drove around Wetona in a sagging73, one-seated cart and never made any money because he did honest work and charged as little for it as men who did not. His mortar74 stuck, and his bricks did not crumble75, and his lumber76 did not crack. Riches are not acquired in the contracting business in that way. Ed Sheehan and his daughter were great friends. When he died (she was nineteen) they say she screamed once, like a banshee, and dropped to the floor.
After they had straightened out the muddle77 of books in Ed Sheehan's gritty, dusty little office Terry turned her piano-playing talent to practical account. At twenty-one she was still playing at the Bijou, and into her face was creeping the first hint of that look of sophistication which comes from daily contact with the artificial world of the footlights. It is the look of those who must make believe as a business, and are a-weary. You see it developed into its highest degree in the face of a veteran comedian78. It is the thing that gives the look of utter pathos79 and tragedy to the relaxed expression of a circus clown.
There are, in a small, Mid-West town like Wetona, just two kinds of girls. Those who go down town Saturday nights, and those who don't. Terry, if she had not been busy with her job at the Bijou, would have come in the first group. She craved80 excitement. There was little chance to satisfy such craving81 in Wetona, but she managed to find certain means. The travelling men from the Burke House just across the street used to drop in at the Bijou for an evening's entertainment. They usually sat well toward the front, and Terry's expert playing, and the gloss82 of her black hair, and her piquant83 profile as she sometimes looked up toward the stage for a signal from one of the performers, caught their fancy, and held it.
Terry did not accept their attentions promiscuously84. She was too decent a girl for that. But she found herself, at the end of a year or two, with a rather large acquaintance among these peripatetic85 gentlemen. You occasionally saw one of them strolling home with her. Sometimes she went driving with one of them of a Sunday afternoon. And she rather enjoyed taking Sunday dinner at the Burke Hotel with a favoured friend. She thought those small-town hotel Sunday dinners the last word in elegance86. The roast course was always accompanied by an aqueous, semi-frozen concoction87 which the bill of fare revealed as Roman punch. It added a royal touch to the repast, even when served with roast pork. I don't say that any of these Lotharios snatched a kiss during a Sunday afternoon drive. Or that Terry slapped him promptly88. But either seems extremely likely.
Terry was twenty-two when Orville Platt, making his initial Wisconsin trip for the wholesale grocery house he represented, first beheld89 Terry's piquant Irish profile, and heard her deft90 manipulation of the keys. Orville had the fat man's sense of rhythm and love of music. He had a buttery tenor91 voice, too, of which he was rather proud.
He spent three days in Wetona that first trip, and every evening saw him at the Bijou, first row, centre. He stayed through two shows each time, and before he had been there fifteen minutes Terry was conscious of him through the back of her head. In fact I think that, in all innocence92, she rather played up to him. Orville Platt paid no more heed93 to the stage, and what was occurring thereon, than if it had not been. He sat looking at Terry, and waggling his head in time to the music. Not that Terry was a beauty. But she was one of those immaculately clean types. That look of fragrant94 cleanliness was her chief charm. Her clear, smooth skin contributed to it, and the natural pencilling of her eyebrows95. But the thing that accented it, and gave it a last touch, was the way in which her black hair came down in a little point just in the centre of her forehead, where hair meets brow. It grew to form what is known as a cow-lick. (A prettier name for it is widow's peak.) Your eye lighted on it, pleased, and from it travelled its gratified way down her white temples, past her little ears, to the smooth black coil at the nape of her neck. It was a trip that rested you.
At the end of the last performance on the second night of his visit to the Bijou, Orville waited until the audience had begun to file out. Then he leaned forward over the rail that separated orchestra from audience.
"Could you," he said, his tones dulcet96, "could you oblige me with the name of that last piece you played?"
Terry was stacking her music. "George!" she called, to the drum. "Gentleman wants to know the name of that last piece." And prepared to leave.
"'My Georgia Crackerjack'," said the laconic97 drum.
Orville Platt took a hasty side-step in the direction of the door toward which Terry was headed. "It's a pretty thing," he said, fervently98. "An awful pretty thing. Thanks. It's beautiful."
Terry flung a last insult at him over her shoulder: "Don't thank me for it. I didn't write it."
Orville Platt did not go across the street to the hotel. He wandered up Cass street, and into the ten-o'clock quiet of Main street, and down as far as the park and back. "Pretty as a pink! And play!... And good, too. Good."
A fat man in love.
At the end of six months they were married. Terry was surprised into it. Not that she was not fond of him. She was; and grateful to him, as well. For, pretty as she was, no man had ever before asked Terry to be his wife. They had made love to her. They had paid court to her. They had sent her large boxes of stale drug-store chocolates, and called her endearing names as they made cautious declaration such as:
"I've known a lot of girls, but you've got something different. I don't know. You've got so much sense. A fellow can chum around with you. Little pal99."
Orville's headquarters were Wetona. They rented a comfortable, seven-room house in a comfortable, middle-class neighbourhood, and Terry dropped the red velvet turbans and went in for picture hats and paradise aigrettes. Orville bought her a piano whose tone was so good that to her ear, accustomed to the metallic100 discords101 of the Bijou instrument, it sounded out of tune. She played a great deal at first, but unconsciously she missed the sharp spat102 of applause that used to follow her public performance. She would play a piece, brilliantly, and then her hands would drop to her lap. And the silence of her own sitting room would fall flat on her ears. It was better on the evenings when Orville was home. He sang, in his throaty, fat man's tenor, to Terry's expert accompaniment.
"This is better than playing for those bum103 actors, isn't it, hon?" And he would pinch her ear.
"Sure"—listlessly.
But after the first year she became accustomed to what she termed private life. She joined an afternoon sewing club, and was active in the ladies' branch of the U.C.T. She developed a knack104 at cooking, too, and Orville, after a week or ten days of hotel fare in small Wisconsin towns, would come home to sea-foam biscuits, and real soup, and honest pies and cake. Sometimes, in the midst of an appetising meal he would lay down his knife and fork and lean back in his chair, and regard the cool and unruffled Terry with a sort of reverence105 in his eyes. Then he would get up, and come around to the other side of the table, and tip her pretty face up to his.
"I'll bet I'll wake up, some day, and find out it's all a dream. You know this kind of thing doesn't really happen—not to a dub106 like me."
One year; two; three; four. Routine. A little boredom107. Some impatience108. She began to find fault with the very things she had liked in him: his super-neatness; his fondness for dashing suit patterns; his throaty tenor; his worship of her. And the flap. Oh, above all, that flap! That little, innocent, meaningless mannerism109 that made her tremble with nervousness. She hated it so that she could not trust herself to speak of it to him. That was the trouble. Had she spoken of it, laughingly or in earnest, before it became an obsession110 with her, that hideous111 breakfast quarrel, with its taunts112, and revilings, and open hate, might never have come to pass. For that matter, any one of those foreign fellows with the guttural names and the psychoanalytical minds could have located her trouble in one séance.
Terry Platt herself didn't know what was the matter with her. She would have denied that anything was wrong. She didn't even throw her hands above her head and shriek: "I want to live! I want to live! I want to live!" like a lady in a play. She only knew she was sick of sewing at the Wetona West-End Red Cross shop; sick of marketing113, of home comforts, of Orville, of the flap.
Orville, you may remember, left at 8.19. The 11.23 bore Terry Chicagoward. She had left the house as it was—beds unmade, rooms unswept, breakfast table uncleared. She intended never to come back.
Now and then a picture of the chaos114 she had left behind would flash across her order-loving mind. The spoon on the table-cloth. Orville's pajamas115 dangling116 over the bathroom chair. The coffee-pot on the gas stove.
"Pooh! What do I care?"
In her pocketbook she had a tidy sum saved out of the housekeeping money. She was naturally thrifty117, and Orville had never been niggardly118. Her meals when Orville was on the road, had been those sketchy119, haphazard120 affairs with which women content themselves when their household is manless. At noon she went into the dining car and ordered a flaunting121 little repast of chicken salad and asparagus, and Neapolitan ice cream. The men in the dining car eyed her speculatively122 and with appreciation123. Then their glance dropped to the third finger of her left hand, and wandered away. She had meant to remove it. In fact, she had taken it off and dropped it into her bag. But her hand felt so queer, so unaccustomed, so naked, that she had found herself slipping the narrow band on again, and her thumb groped for it, gratefully.
It was almost five o'clock when she reached Chicago. She felt no uncertainty124 or bewilderment. She had been in Chicago three or four times since her marriage. She went to a down town hotel. It was too late, she told herself, to look for a more inexpensive room that night. When she had tidied herself she went out. The things she did were the childish, aimless things that one does who finds herself in possession of sudden liberty. She walked up State Street, and stared in the windows; came back, turned into Madison, passed a bright little shop in the window of which taffy—white and gold—was being wound endlessly and fascinatingly about a double-jointed machine. She went in and bought a sackful, and wandered on down the street, munching126.
She had supper at one of those white-tiled sarcophagi that emblazon Chicago's down town side streets. It had been her original intention to dine in state in the rose-and-gold dining room of her hotel. She had even thought daringly of lobster127. But at the last moment she recoiled128 from the idea of dining alone in that wilderness129 of tables so obviously meant for two.
After her supper she went to a picture show. She was amazed to find there, instead of the accustomed orchestra, a pipe-organ that panted and throbbed130 and rumbled131 over lugubrious132 classics. The picture was about a faithless wife. Terry left in the middle of it.
She awoke next morning at seven, as usual, started up wildly, looked around, and dropped back. Nothing to get up for. The knowledge did not fill her with a rush of relief. She would have her breakfast in bed! She telephoned for it, languidly. But when it came she got up and ate it from the table, after all. Terry was the kind of woman to whom a pink gingham all-over apron133, and a pink dust-cap are ravishingly becoming at seven o'clock in the morning. That sort of woman congenitally cannot enjoy her breakfast in bed.
That morning she found a fairly comfortable room, more within her means, on the north side in the boarding house district. She unpacked134 and hung up her clothes and drifted down town again, idly. It was noon when she came to the corner of State and Madison streets. It was a maelstrom135 that caught her up, and buffeted136 her about, and tossed her helplessly this way and that. The corner of Broadway and Forty-second streets has been exploited in song and story as the world's most hazardous137 human whirlpool. I've negotiated that corner. I've braved the square in front of the American Express Company's office in Paris, June, before the War. I've crossed the Strand138 at 11 p.m. when the theatre crowds are just out. And to my mind the corner of State and Madison streets between twelve and one, mid-day, makes any one of these dizzy spots look bosky, sylvan139, and deserted140.
The thousands jostled Terry, and knocked her hat awry141, and dug her with unheeding elbows, and stepped on her feet.
"Say, look here!" she said, once futilely142. They did not stop to listen. State and Madison has no time for Terrys from Wetona. It goes its way, pellmell. If it saw Terry at all it saw her only as a prettyish person, in the wrong kind of suit and hat, with a bewildered, resentful look on her face.
Terry drifted on down the west side of State Street, with the hurrying crowd. State and Monroe. A sound came to Terry's ears. A sound familiar, beloved. To her ear, harassed143 with the roar and crash, with the shrill scream of the crossing policemen's whistle, with the hiss144 of feet shuffling145 on cement, it was a celestial146 strain. She looked up, toward the sound. A great second-story window opened wide to the street. In it a girl at a piano, and a man, red-faced, singing through a megaphone. And on a flaring147 red and green sign:
BERNIE GOTTSCHALK'S MUSIC HOUSE!
COME IN! HEAR BERNIE GOTTSCHALK'S LATEST
HIT! THE HEART-THROB SONG THAT HAS GOT 'EM ALL!
THE SONG THAT MADE THE KAISER CRAWL!
"I COME FROM PARIS, ILLINOIS, BUT OH!
YOU PARIS, FRANCE!
I USED TO WEAR BLUE OVERALLS148 BUT
NOW ITS KHAKI PANTS."
COME IN! COME IN!
Terry accepted.
She followed the sound of the music. Around the corner. Up a little flight of stairs. She entered the realm of Euterpe; Euterpe with her back hair frizzed; Euterpe with her flowing white robe replaced by soiled white boots that failed to touch the hem29 of an empire-waisted blue serge; Euterpe abandoning her lyre for jazz. She sat at the piano, a red-haired young lady whose familiarity with the piano had bred contempt. Nothing else could have accounted for her treatment of it. Her fingers, tipped with sharp-pointed grey and glistening149 nails, clawed the keys with a dreadful mechanical motion. There were stacks of music-sheets on counters, and shelves, and dangling from overhead wires. The girl at the piano never ceased playing. She played mostly by request. A prospective150 purchaser would mumble151 something in the ear of one of the clerks. The fat man with the megaphone would bawl152 out, "'Hicky Bloo!' Miss Ryan." And Miss Ryan would oblige. She made a hideous rattle153 and crash and clatter of sound compared to which an Indian tom-tom would have seemed as dulcet as the strumming of a lute154 in a lady's boudoir.
Terry joined the crowds about the counter. The girl at the piano was not looking at the keys. Her head was screwed around over her left shoulder and as she played she was holding forth155 animatedly156 to a girl friend who had evidently dropped in from some store or office during the lunch hour. Now and again the fat man paused in his vocal157 efforts to reprimand her for her slackness. She paid no heed. There was something gruesome, uncanny, about the way her fingers went their own way over the defenceless keys. Her conversation with the frowzy158 little girl went on.
"Wha'd he say?" (Over her shoulder).
"Oh, he laffed."
"Well, didja go?"
"Me! Well, whutya think I yam, anyway?"
"I woulda took a chanst."
The fat man rebelled.
"Look here! Get busy! What are you paid for? Talkin' or playin'? Huh?"
The person at the piano, openly reproved thus before her friend, lifted her uninspired hands from the keys and spake. When she had finished she rose.
"But you can't leave now," the megaphone man argued. "Right in the rush hour."
"I'm gone," said the girl. The fat man looked about, helplessly. He gazed at the abandoned piano, as though it must go on of its own accord. Then at the crowd. "Where's Miss Schwimmer?" he demanded of a clerk.
"Out to lunch."
Terry pushed her way to the edge of the counter and leaned over. "I can play for you," she said.
The man looked at her. "Sight?"
"Yes."
"Come on."
Terry went around to the other side of the counter, took off her hat and coat, rubbed her hands together briskly, sat down and began to play. The crowd edged closer.
It is a curious study, this noonday crowd that gathers to sate159 its music-hunger on the scraps160 vouchsafed161 it by Bernie Gottschalk's Music House. Loose-lipped, slope-shouldered young men with bad complexions162 and slender hands. Girls whose clothes are an unconscious satire163 on present-day fashions. On their faces, as they listen to the music, is a look of peace and dreaming. They stand about, smiling a wistful half smile. It is much the same expression that steals over the face of a smoker164 who has lighted his after-dinner cigar, or of a drug victim who is being lulled165 by his opiate. The music seems to satisfy a something within them. Faces dull, eyes lustreless166, they listen in a sort of trance.
Terry played on. She played as Terry Sheehan used to play. She played as no music hack167 at Bernie Gottschalk's had ever played before. The crowd swayed a little to the sound of it. Some kept time with little jerks of the shoulder—the little hitching168 movement of the rag-time dancer whose blood is filled with the fever of syncopation. Even the crowd flowing down State Street must have caught the rhythm of it, for the room soon filled.
At two o'clock the crowd began to thin. Business would be slack, now, until five, when it would again pick up until closing time at six.
The fat vocalist put down his megaphone, wiped his forehead, and regarded Terry with a warm blue eye. He had just finished singing "I've Wandered Far from Dear Old Mother's Knee." (Bernie Gottschalk Inc. Chicago. New York. You can't get bit with a Gottschalk hit. 15 cents each.)
"Girlie," he said, emphatically, "You sure—can—play!" He came over to her at the piano and put a stubby hand on her shoulder. "Yessir! Those little fingers—"
Terry just turned her head to look down her nose at the moist hand resting on her shoulder. "Those little fingers are going to meet your face—suddenly—if you don't move on."
"Who gave you your job?" demanded the fat man.
"Nobody. I picked it myself. You can have it if you want it."
"Can't you take a joke?"
"Label yours."
As the crowd dwindled169 she played less feverishly170, but there was nothing slipshod about her performance. The chubby songster found time to proffer171 brief explanations in asides. "They want the patriotic172 stuff. It used to be all that Hawaiian dope, and Wild Irish Rose junk, and songs about wanting to go back to every place from Dixie to Duluth. But now seems it's all these here flag raisers. Honestly, I'm so sick of 'em I got a notion to enlist173 to get away from it."
Terry eyed him with, withering174 briefness. "A little training wouldn't ruin your figure."
She had never objected to Orville's embonpoint. But then, Orville was a different sort of fat man; pink-cheeked, springy, immaculate.
At four o'clock, as she was in the chorus of "Isn't There Another Joan of Arc?" a melting masculine voice from the other side of the counter said, "Pardon me. What's that you're playing?"
Terry told him. She did not look up.
"I wouldn't have known it. Played like that—a second Marseillaise. If the words—what are the words? Let me see a—"
"Show the gentleman a 'Joan'," Terry commanded briefly175, over her shoulder. The fat man laughed a wheezy laugh. Terry glanced around, still playing, and encountered the gaze of two melting masculine eyes that matched the melting masculine voice. The songster waved a hand uniting Terry and the eyes in informal introduction.
"Mr. Leon Sammett, the gentleman who sings the Gottschalk songs wherever songs are heard. And Mrs.—that is—and Mrs. Sammett—"
Terry turned. A sleek176, swarthy world-old young man with the fashionable concave torso, and alarmingly convex bone-rimmed glasses. Through them his darkly luminous177 gaze glowed upon Terry. To escape their warmth she sent her own gaze past him to encounter the arctic stare of the large blonde person who had been included so lamely178 in the introduction. And at that the frigidity179 of that stare softened180, melted, dissolved.
"Why Terry Sheehan! What in the world!"
Terry's eyes bored beneath the layers of flabby fat. "It's—why, it's Ruby Watson, isn't it? Eccentric Song and Dance—"
She glanced at the concave young man and faltered181. He was not Jim, of the Bijou days. From him her eyes leaped back to the fur-bedecked splendour of the woman. The plump face went so painfully red that the makeup182 stood out on it, a distinct layer, like thin ice covering flowing water. As she surveyed that bulk Terry realised that while Ruby might still claim eccentricity183, her song and dance days were over. "That's ancient history, m'dear. I haven't been working for three years. What're you doing in this joint125? I'd heard you'd done well for yourself. That you were married."
"I am. That is I—well, I am. I—"
At that the dark young man leaned over and patted Terry's hand that lay on the counter. He smiled. His own hand was incredibly slender, long, and tapering184.
"That's all right," he assured her, and smiled. "You two girls can have a reunion later. What I want to know is can you play by ear?"
"Yes, but—"
He leaned far over the counter. "I knew it the minute I heard you play. You've got the touch. Now listen. See if you can get this, and fake the bass185."
He fixed186 his sombre and hypnotic eyes on Terry. His mouth screwed up into a whistle. The tune—a tawdry but haunting little melody—came through his lips. And Terry's quick ear sensed that every note was flat. She turned back to the piano. "Of course you know you flatted every note," she said.
This time it was the blonde woman who laughed, and the man who flushed. Terry cocked her head just a little to one side, like a knowing bird, looked up into space beyond the piano top, and played the lilting little melody with charm and fidelity. The dark young man followed her with a wagging of the head and little jerks of both outspread hands. His expression was beatific187, enraptured188. He hummed a little under his breath and any one who was music wise would have known that he was just a half-beat behind her all the way.
When she had finished he sighed deeply, ecstatically. He bent his lean frame over the counter and, despite his swart colouring, seemed to glitter upon her—his eyes, his teeth, his very finger-nails.
"Something led me here. I never come up on Tuesdays. But something—"
"You was going to complain," put in his lady, heavily, "about that Teddy Sykes at the Palace Gardens singing the same songs this week that you been boosting at the Inn."
He put up a vibrant189, peremptory190 hand. "Bah! What does that matter now! What does anything matter now! Listen Miss—ah—Miss?—"
"Pl—Sheehan. Terry Sheehan."
He gazed off a moment into space. "H'm. 'Leon Sammett in Songs. Miss Terry Sheehan at the Piano.' That doesn't sound bad. Now listen, Miss Sheehan. I'm singing down at the University Inn. The Gottschalk song hits. I guess you know my work. But I want to talk to you, private. It's something to your interest. I go on down at the Inn at six. Will you come and have a little something with Ruby and me? Now?"
"Now?" faltered Terry, somewhat helplessly. Things seemed to be moving rather swiftly for her, accustomed as she was to the peaceful routine of the past four years.
"Get your hat. It's your life chance. Wait till you see your name in two-foot electrics over the front of every big-time house in the country. You've got music in you. Tie to me and you're made." He turned to the woman beside him. "Isn't that so, Rube?"
"Sure. Look at me!" One would not have thought there could be so much subtle vindictiveness191 in a fat blonde.
Sammett whipped out a watch. "Just three-quarters of an hour. Come on, girlie."
His conversation had been conducted in an urgent undertone, with side glances at the fat man with the megaphone. Terry approached him now.
"I'm leaving now," she said.
"Oh, no you're not. Six o'clock is your quitting time."
In which he touched the Irish in Terry. "Any time I quit is my quitting time." She went in quest of hat and coat much as the girl had done whose place she had taken early in the day. The fat man followed her, protesting. Terry, pinning on her hat tried to ignore him. But he laid one plump hand on her arm and kept it there, though she tried to shake him off.
"Now, listen to me. That boy wouldn't mind putting his heel on your face if he thought it would bring him up a step. I know'm. Y'see that walking stick he's carrying? Well, compared to the yellow stripe that's in him, that cane192 is a lead pencil. He's a song tout193, that's all he is." Then, more feverishly, as Terry tried to pull away: "Wait a minute. You're a decent girl. I want to—Why, he can't even sing a note without you give it to him first. He can put a song over, yes. But how? By flashin' that toothy grin, of his and talkin' every word of it. Don't you—"
But Terry freed herself with a final jerk and whipped around the counter. The two, who had been talking together in an undertone, turned to welcome her. "We've got a half hour. Come on. It's just over to Clark and up a block or so."
If you know Chicago at all, you know the University Inn, that gloriously intercollegiate institution which welcomes any graduate of any school of experience, and guarantees a post-graduate course in less time than any similar haven of knowledge. Down a flight of stairs and into the unwonted quiet that reigns194 during the hour of low potentiality, between five and six, the three went, and seated themselves at a table in an obscure corner. A waiter brought them things in little glasses, though no order had been given. The woman who had been Ruby Watson was so silent as to be almost wordless. But the man talked rapidly. He talked well, too. The same quality that enabled him, voiceless though he was, to boost a song to success, was making his plea sound plausible195 in Terry's ears now.
"I've got to go and make up in a few minutes. So get this. I'm not going to stick down in this basement eating house forever. I've got too much talent. If I only had a voice—I mean a singing voice. But I haven't. But then, neither has Georgie Cohan, and I can't see that it's wrecked196 his life any. Look at Elsie Janis! But she sings. And they like it! Now listen. I've got a song. It's my own. That bit you played for me up at Gottschalk's is part of the chorus. But it's the words that'll go big. They're great. It's an aviation song, see? Airship stuff. They're yelling that it's the airyoplanes that're going to win this war. Well, I'll help 'em. This song is going to put the aviator197 where he belongs. It's going to be the big song of the war. It's going to make 'Tipperary' sound like a Moody198 and Sankey hymn199. It's the—"
Ruby lifted her heavy-lidded eyes and sent him a meaning look. "Get down to business, Leon. I'll tell her how good you are while you're making up."
He shot her a malignant200 glance, but took her advice. "Now what I've been looking for for years is somebody who has got the music knack to give me the accompaniment just a quarter of a jump ahead of my voice, see? I can follow like a lamb, but I've got to have that feeler first. It's more than a knack. It's a gift. And you've got it. I know it when I see it. I want to get away from this cabaret thing. There's nothing in it for a man of my talent. I'm gunning for vaudeville. But they won't book me without a tryout. And when they hear my voice they—Well, if me and you work together we can fool 'em. The song's great. And my makeup's one of these av-iation costumes to go with the song, see? Pants tight in the knee and baggy201 on the hips202. And a coat with one of those full skirt whaddyoucall'ems—"
"Peplums," put in Ruby, placidly203.
"Sure. And the girls'll be wild about it. And the words!" he began to sing, gratingly off-key:
"Put on your sky clothes,
Put on your fly clothes
And take a trip with me.
We'll sail so high
Up in the sky
We'll drop a bomb from Mercury."
"Why, that's awfully204 cute!" exclaimed Terry. Until now her opinion of Mr. Sammett's talents had not been on a level with his.
"Yeh, but wait till you hear the second verse. That's only part of the chorus. You see, he's supposed to be talking to a French girl. He says:
I'll parlez-vous in Fran?ais plain,
You'll answer, 'Cher Américain,
We'll both. . . . . . . . . . ."
The six o'clock lights blazed up, suddenly. A sad-looking group of men trailed in and made for a corner where certain bulky, shapeless bundles were soon revealed as those glittering and tortuous205 instruments which go to make a jazz band.
"You better go, Lee. The crowd comes in awful early now, with all those buyers in town."
Both hands on the table he half rose, reluctantly, still talking. "I've got three other songs. They make Gottschalk's stuff look sick. All I want's a chance. What I want you to do is accompaniment. On the stage, see? Grand piano. And a swell206 set. I haven't quite made up my mind to it. But a kind of an army camp room, see? And maybe you dressed as Liberty. Anyway, it'll be new, and a knock-out. If only we can get away with the voice thing. Say, if Eddie Foy, all those years never had a—"
The band opened with a terrifying clash of cymbal207, and thump208 of drum. "Back at the end of my first turn," he said as he fled. Terry followed his lithe209, electric figure. She turned to meet the heavy-lidded gaze of the woman seated opposite. She relaxed, then, and sat back with a little sigh. "Well! If he talks that way to the managers I don't see—"
Ruby laughed a mirthless little laugh. "Talk doesn't get it over with the managers, honey. You've got to deliver."
"Well, but he's—that song is a good one. I don't say it's as good as he thinks it is, but it's good."
"Yes," admitted the woman, grudgingly210, "it's good."
"Well, then?"
The woman beckoned211 a waiter; he nodded and vanished, and reappeared with a glass that was twin to the one she had just emptied. "Does he look like he knew French? Or could make a rhyme?"
"But didn't he? Doesn't he?"
"The words were written by a little French girl who used to skate down here last winter, when the craze was on. She was stuck on a Chicago kid who went over to fly for the French."
"But the music?"
"There was a Russian girl who used to dance in the cabaret and she—"
Terry's head came up with a characteristic little jerk. "I don't believe it!"
"Better." She gazed at Terry with the drowsy212 look that was so different from the quick, clear glance of the Ruby Watson who used to dance so nimbly in the Old Bijou days. "What'd you and your husband quarrel about, Terry?"
Terry was furious to feel herself flushing. "Oh, nothing. He just—I—it was—Say, how did you know we'd quarrelled?"
And suddenly all the fat woman's apathy213 dropped from her like a garment and some of the old sparkle and animation214 illumined her heavy face. She pushed her glass aside and leaned forward on her folded arms, so that her face was close to Terry's.
"Terry Sheehan, I know you've quarrelled, and I know just what it was about. Oh, I don't mean the very thing it was about; but the kind of thing. I'm going to do something for you, Terry, that I wouldn't take the trouble to do for most women. But I guess I ain't had all the softness knocked out of me yet, though it's a wonder. And I guess I remember too plain the decent kid you was in the old days. What was the name of that little small-time house me and Jim used to play? Bijou, that's it; Bijou."
The band struck up a new tune. Leon Sammett—slim, sleek, lithe in his evening clothes—appeared with a little fair girl in pink chiffon. The woman reached across the table and put one pudgy, jewelled hand on Terry's arm. "He'll be through in ten minutes. Now listen to me. I left Jim four years ago, and there hasn't been a minute since then, day or night, when I wouldn't have crawled back to him on my hands and knees if I could. But I couldn't. He wouldn't have me now. How could he? How do I know you've quarrelled? I can see it in your eyes. They look just the way mine have felt for four years, that's how. I met up with this boy, and there wasn't anybody to do the turn for me that I'm trying to do for you. Now get this. I left Jim because when he ate corn on the cob he always closed his eyes and it drove me wild. Don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing," said Terry.
"Women are like that. One night—we was playing Fond du Lac; I remember just as plain—we was eating supper and Jim reached for one of those big yellow ears, and buttered and salted it, and me kind of hanging on to the edge of the table with my nails. Seemed to me if he shut his eyes when he put his teeth into that ear of corn I'd scream. And he did. And I screamed. And that's all."
Terry sat staring at her with a wide-eyed stare, like a sleep walker. Then she wet her lips, slowly. "But that's almost the very—"
"Kid, go on back home. I don't know whether it's too late or not, but go anyway. If you've lost him I suppose it ain't any more than you deserve, but I hope to God you don't get your desserts this time. He's almost through. If he sees you going he can't quit in the middle of his song to stop you. He'll know I put you wise, and he'll prob'ly half kill me for it. But it's worth it. You get."
And Terry—dazed, shaking, but grateful—fled. Down the noisy aisle215, up the stairs, to the street. Back to her rooming house. Out again, with her suitcase, and into the right railroad station somehow, at last. Not another Wetona train until midnight. She shrank into a remote corner of the waiting room and there she huddled216 until midnight watching the entrances like a child who is fearful of ghosts in the night.
The hands of the station clock seemed fixed and immovable. The hour between eleven and twelve was endless. She was on the train. It was almost morning. It was morning. Dawn was breaking. She was home! She had the house key clutched tightly in her hand long before she turned Schroeder's corner. Suppose he had come home! Suppose he had jumped a town and come home ahead of his schedule. They had quarrelled once before, and he had done that.
Up the front steps. Into the house. Not a sound. She stood there a moment in the early morning half-light. She peered into the dining room. The table, with its breakfast débris, was as she had left it. In the kitchen the coffee pot stood on the gas stove. She was home. She was safe. She ran up the stairs, got out of her clothes and into crisp gingham morning things. She flung open windows everywhere. Down-stairs once more she plunged217 into an orgy of cleaning. Dishes, table, stove, floor, rugs. She washed, scoured218, flapped, swabbed, polished. By eight o'clock she had done the work that would ordinarily have taken until noon. The house was shining, orderly, and redolent of soapsuds.
During all this time she had been listening, listening, with her sub-conscious ear. Listening for something she had refused to name definitely in her mind, but listening, just the same; waiting.
And then, at eight o'clock, it came. The rattle of a key in the lock. The boom of the front door. Firm footsteps.
He did not go to meet her, and she did not go to meet him. They came together and were in each other's arms. She was weeping.
"Now, now, old girl. What's there to cry about? Don't, honey; don't. It's all right."
She raised her head then, to look at him. How fresh, and rosy219, and big he seemed, after that little sallow, yellow restaurant rat.
"How did you get here? How did you happen—?"
"Jumped all the way from Ashland. Couldn't get a sleeper220, so I sat up all night. I had to come back and square things with you, Terry. My mind just wasn't on my work. I kept thinking how I'd talked—how I'd talked—"
"Oh, Orville, don't! I can't bear—Have you had your breakfast?"
"Why, no. The train was an hour late. You know that Ashland train."
But she was out of his arms and making for the kitchen. "You go and clean up. I'll have hot biscuits and everything in fifteen minutes. You poor boy. No breakfast!"
She made good her promise. It could not have been more than twenty minutes later when he was buttering his third feathery, golden brown biscuit. But she had eaten nothing. She watched him, and listened, and again her eyes were sombre, but for a different reason. He broke open his egg. His elbow came up just a fraction of an inch. Then he remembered, and flushed like a schoolboy, and brought it down again, carefully. And at that she gave a little tremulous cry, and rushed around the table to him.
"Oh, Orville!" She took the offending elbow in her two arms, and bent and kissed the rough coat sleeve.
"Why, Terry! Don't, honey. Don't!"
"Oh, Orville, listen—"
"Yes."
"Listen, Orville—"
"I'm listening, Terry."
"I've got something to tell you. There's something you've got to know."
"Yes, I know it, Terry. I knew you'd out with it, pretty soon, if I just waited."
She lifted an amazed face from his shoulder then, and stared at him. "But how could you know? You couldn't! How could you?"
He patted her shoulder then, gently. "I can always tell. When you have something on your mind you always take up a spoon of coffee, and look at it, and kind of joggle it back and forth in the spoon, and then dribble221 it back into the cup again, without once tasting it. It used to get me nervous when we were first married watching you. But now I know it just means you're worried about something, and I wait, and pretty soon—"
"Oh, Orville!" she cried, then. "Oh, Orville!"
"Now, Terry. Just spill it, hon. Just spill it to daddy. And you'll feel better."
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1
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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3
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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4
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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7
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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8
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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9
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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10
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
unevenly
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| adv.不均匀的 | |
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scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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14
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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yolk
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| n.蛋黄，卵黄 | |
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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25
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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29
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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31
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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38
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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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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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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42
onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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43
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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44
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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45
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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46
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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47
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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48
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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49
vitriolic
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| adj.硫酸的，尖刻的 | |
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50
concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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51
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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52
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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53
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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54
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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55
clutter
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| n.零乱，杂乱；vt.弄乱，把…弄得杂乱 | |
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56
congealed
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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57
congealing
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的现在分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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58
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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59
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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60
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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61
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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62
delve
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| v.深入探究，钻研 | |
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63
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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64
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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65
pucker
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| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
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66
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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67
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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68
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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69
virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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70
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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71
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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73
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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74
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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75
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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76
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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77
muddle
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|
| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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78
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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79
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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80
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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81
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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82
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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83
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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84
promiscuously
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| adv.杂乱地，混杂地 | |
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85
peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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86
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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87
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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88
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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89
beheld
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| 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 | |
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90
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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91
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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92
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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93
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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94
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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95
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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96
dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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97
laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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98
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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99
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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100
metallic
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|
| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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101
discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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102
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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103
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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104
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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105
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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106
dub
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| vt.（以某种称号）授予，给...起绰号，复制 | |
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107
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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108
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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109
mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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110
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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111
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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112
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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113
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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114
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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115
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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116
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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117
thrifty
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|
| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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118
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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119
sketchy
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| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
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120
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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121
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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122
speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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123
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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124
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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125
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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126
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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127
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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128
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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129
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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130
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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131
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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132
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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133
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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134
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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135
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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136
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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137
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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138
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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139
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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140
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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141
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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142
futilely
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| futile（无用的）的变形； 干 | |
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143
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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144
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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145
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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146
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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147
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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148
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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149
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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150
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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151
mumble
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| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
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152
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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153
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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154
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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155
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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156
animatedly
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| adv.栩栩如生地，活跃地 | |
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157
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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158
frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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159
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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160
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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161
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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162
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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163
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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164
smoker
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| n.吸烟者，吸烟车厢，吸烟室 | |
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165
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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166
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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167
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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168
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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169
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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171
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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172
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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173
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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174
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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175
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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176
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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177
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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178
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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179
frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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180
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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181
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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182
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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183
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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184
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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185
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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186
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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187
beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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188
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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190
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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191
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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192
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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193
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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194
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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195
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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196
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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197
aviator
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| n.飞行家，飞行员 | |
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198
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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199
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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200
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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201
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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202
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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203
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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204
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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205
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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206
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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207
cymbal
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| n.铙钹 | |
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208
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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209
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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210
grudgingly
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211
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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212
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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213
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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214
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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215
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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216
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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217
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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218
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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219
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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220
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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221
dribble
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| v.点滴留下，流口水；n.口水 | |
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