For eleven years Martha Foote, then, had beheld9 humanity throwing its grimy suitcases on her immaculate white bedspreads; wiping its muddy boots on her bath towels; scratching its matches on her wall paper; scrawling10 its pencil marks on her cream woodwork; spilling its greasy11 crumbs12 on her carpet; carrying away her dresser scarfs and pincushions. There is no supremer test of character. Eleven years of hotel housekeepership guarantees a knowledge of human nature that includes some things no living being ought to know about her fellow men. And inevitably13 one of two results must follow. You degenerate14 into a bitter, waspish, and fault-finding shrew; or you develop into a patient, tolerant, and infinitely15 understanding woman. Martha Foote dealt daily with Polack scrub girls, and Irish porters, and Swedish chambermaids, and Swiss waiters, and Halsted Street bell-boys. Italian tenors17 fried onions in her Louis-Quinze suite18. College boys burned cigarette holes in her best linen19 sheets. Yet any one connected with the Senate Hotel, from Pete the pastry20 cook to H.G. Featherstone, lessee-director, could vouch21 for Martha Foote's serene22 unacidulation.
Don't gather from this that Martha Foote was a beaming, motherly person who called you dearie. Neither was she one of those managerial and magnificent blonde beings occasionally encountered in hotel corridors, engaged in addressing strident remarks to a damp and crawling huddle24 of calico that is doing something sloppy25 to the woodwork. Perhaps the shortest cut to Martha Foote's character is through Martha Foote's bedroom. (Twelfth floor. Turn to your left. That's it; 1246. Come in!)
In the long years of its growth and success the Senate Hotel had known the usual growing pains. Starting with walnut26 and red plush it had, in its adolescence27, broken out all over into brass28 beds and birds'-eye maple29. This, in turn, had vanished before mahogany veneer30 and brocade. Hardly had the white scratches on these ruddy surfaces been doctored by the house painter when—whisk! Away with that sombre stuff! And in minced31 a whole troupe32 of near-French furnishings; cream enamel33 beds, cane-backed; spindle-legged dressing23 tables before which it was impossible to dress; perilous34 chairs with raspberry complexions35. Through all these changes Martha Foote, in her big, bright twelfth floor room, had clung to her old black walnut set.
The bed, to begin with, was a massive, towering edifice36 with a headboard that scraped the lofty ceiling. Head and foot-board were fretted37 and carved with great blobs representing grapes, and cornucopias38, and tendrils, and knobs and other bedevilments of the cabinet-maker's craft. It had been polished and rubbed until now it shone like soft brown satin. There was a monumental dresser too, with a liver-coloured marble top. Along the wall, near the windows, was a couch; a heavy, wheezing39, fat-armed couch decked out in white ruffled40 cushions. I suppose the mere41 statement that, in Chicago, Illinois, Martha Foote kept these cushions always crisply white, would make any further characterization superfluous42. The couch made you think of a plump grandmother of bygone days, a beruffled white fichu across her ample, comfortable bosom43. Then there was the writing desk; a substantial structure that bore no relation to the pindling rose-and-cream affairs that graced the guest rooms. It was the solid sort of desk at which an English novelist of the three-volume school might have written a whole row of books without losing his dignity or cramping44 his style. Martha Foote used it for making out reports and instruction sheets, for keeping accounts, and for her small private correspondence.
Such was Martha Foote's room. In a modern and successful hotel, whose foyer was rose-shaded, brass-grilled, peacock-alleyed and tessellated, that bed-sitting-room of hers was as wholesome45, and satisfying, and real as a piece of home-made rye bread on a tray of French pastry; and as incongruous.
It was to the orderly comfort of these accustomed surroundings that the housekeeper of the Senate Hotel opened her eyes this Tuesday morning. Opened them, and lay a moment, bridging the morphean chasm46 that lay between last night and this morning. It was 6:30 A.M. It is bad enough to open one's eyes at 6:30 on Monday morning. But to open them at 6:30 on Tuesday morning, after an indigo47 Monday.... The taste of yesterday lingered, brackish48, in Martha's mouth.
"Oh, well, it won't be as bad as yesterday, anyway. It can't." So she assured herself, as she lay there. "There never were two days like that, hand running. Not even in the hotel business."
For yesterday had been what is known as a muddy Monday. Thick, murky49, and oozy50 with trouble. Two conventions, three banquets, the lobby so full of khaki that it looked like a sand-storm, a threatened strike in the laundry, a travelling man in two-twelve who had the grippe and thought he was dying, a shortage of towels (that bugaboo of the hotel housekeeper) due to the laundry trouble that had kept the linen-room telephone jangling to the tune51 of a hundred damp and irate52 guests. And weaving in and out, and above, and about and through it all, like a neuralgic toothache that can't be located, persisted the constant, nagging53, maddening complaints of the Chronic54 Kicker in six-eighteen.
Six-eighteen was a woman. She had arrived Monday morning, early. By Monday night every girl on the switchboard had the nervous jumps when they plugged in at her signal. She had changed her rooms, and back again. She had quarrelled with the room clerk. She had complained to the office about the service, the food, the linen, the lights, the noise, the chambermaid, all the bell-boys, and the colour of the furnishings in her suite. She said she couldn't live with that colour. It made her sick. Between 8:30 and 10:30 that night, there had come a lull55. Six-eighteen was doing her turn at the Majestic56.
Martha Foote knew that. She knew, too, that her name was Geisha McCoy, and she knew what that name meant, just as you do. She had even laughed and quickened and responded to Geisha McCoy's manipulation of her audience, just as you have. Martha Foote knew the value of the personal note, and it had been her idea that had resulted in the rule which obliged elevator boys, chambermaids, floor clerks, doormen and waiters if possible, to learn the names of Senate Hotel guests, no matter how brief their stay.
"They like it," she had said, to Manager Brant. "You know that better than I do. They'll be flattered, and surprised, and tickled57 to death, and they'll go back to Burlington, Iowa, and tell how well known they are at the Senate."
When the suggestion was met with the argument that no human being could be expected to perform such daily feats58 of memory Martha Foote battered59 it down with:
"That's just where you're mistaken. The first few days are bad. After that it's easier every day, until it becomes mechanical. I remember when I first started waiting on table in my mother's quick lunch eating house in Sorghum60, Minnesota. I'd bring 'em wheat cakes when they'd ordered pork and beans, but it wasn't two weeks before I could take six orders, from soup to pie, without so much as forgetting the catsup. Habit, that's all."
So she, as well as the minor61 hotel employés, knew six-eighteen as Geisha McCoy. Geisha McCoy, who got a thousand a week for singing a few songs and chatting informally with the delighted hundreds on the other side of the footlights. Geisha McCoy made nothing of those same footlights. She reached out, so to speak, and shook hands with you across their amber16 glare. Neither lovely nor alluring62, this woman. And as for her voice!—And yet for ten years or more this rather plain person, somewhat dumpy, no longer young, had been singing her every-day, human songs about every-day, human people. And invariably (and figuratively) her audience clambered up over the footlights, and sat in her lap. She had never resorted to cheap music-hall tricks. She had never invited the gallery to join in the chorus. She descended63 to no finger-snapping. But when she sang a song about a waitress she was a waitress. She never hesitated to twist up her hair, and pull down her mouth, to get an effect. She didn't seem to be thinking about herself, at all, or about her clothes, or her method, or her effort, or anything but the audience that was plastic to her deft64 and magic manipulation.
Until very recently. Six months had wrought65 a subtle change in Geisha McCoy. She still sang her every-day, human songs about every-day, human people. But you failed, somehow, to recognise them as such. They sounded sawdust-stuffed. And you were likely to hear the man behind you say, "Yeh, but you ought to have heard her five years ago. She's about through."
Such was six-eighteen. Martha Foote, luxuriating in that one delicious moment between her 6:30 awakening66, and her 6:31 arising, mused67 on these things. She thought of how, at eleven o'clock the night before, her telephone had rung with the sharp zing! of trouble. The voice of Irish Nellie, on night duty on the sixth floor, had sounded thick-brogued, sure sign of distress68 with her.
"I'm sorry to be a-botherin' ye, Mis' Phut. It's Nellie speakin'—Irish Nellie on the sixt'."
"What's the trouble, Nellie?"
"It's that six-eighteen again. She's goin' on like mad. She's carryin' on something fierce."
"What about?"
"Th'—th' blankets, Mis' Phut."
"Blankets?—"
"She says—it's her wurruds, not mine—she says they're vile69. Vile, she says."
Martha Foote's spine70 had stiffened71. "In this house! Vile!"
If there was one thing more than another upon which Martha Foote prided herself it was the Senate Hotel bed coverings. Creamy, spotless, downy, they were her especial fad72. "Brocade chairs, and pink lamps, and gold snake-work are all well and good," she was wont73 to say, "and so are American Beauties in the lobby and white gloves on the elevator boys. But it's the blankets on the beds that stamp a hotel first or second class." And now this, from Nellie.
"I know how ye feel, an' all. I sez to 'er, I sez: 'There never was a blanket in this house,' I sez, 'that didn't look as if it cud be sarved up wit' whipped cr-ream,' I sez, 'an' et,' I sez to her; 'an' fu'thermore,' I sez—"
"Never mind, Nellie. I know. But we never argue with guests. You know that rule as well as I. The guest is right—always. I'll send up the linen-room keys. You get fresh blankets; new ones. And no arguments. But I want to see those—those vile—"
"Listen, Mis' Phut." Irish Nellie's voice, until now shrill75 with righteous anger, dropped a discreet76 octave. "I seen 'em. An' they are vile. Wait a minnit! But why? Becus that there maid of hers—that yella' hussy—give her a body massage77, wit' cold cream an' all, usin' th' blankets f'r coverin', an' smearin' 'em right an' lift. This was afther they come back from th' theayter. Th' crust of thim people, using the iligent blankets off'n the beds t'—"
"Good night, Nellie. And thank you."
"Sure, ye know I'm that upset f'r distarbin' yuh, an' all, but—"
Martha Foote cast an eye toward the great walnut bed. "That's all right. Only, Nellie—"
"Yesm'm."
"If I'm disturbed again on that woman's account for anything less than murder—"
"Yesm'm?"
"Well, there'll be one, that's all. Good night."
Such had been Monday's cheerful close.
Martha Foote sat up in bed, now, preparatory to the heroic flinging aside of the covers. "No," she assured herself, "it can't be as bad as yesterday." She reached round and about her pillow, groping for the recalcitrant78 hairpin79 that always slipped out during the night; found it, and twisted her hair into a hard bathtub bun.
With a jangle that tore through her half-wakened senses the telephone at her bedside shrilled80 into life. Martha Foote, hairpin in mouth, turned and eyed it, speculatively81, fearfully. It shrilled on in her very face, and there seemed something taunting82 and vindictive83 about it. One long ring, followed by a short one; a long ring, a short. "Ca-a-an't it? Ca-a-an't it?"
"Something tells me I'm wrong," Martha Foote told herself, ruefully, and reached for the blatant84, snarling85 thing.
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Foote? This is Healy, the night clerk. Say, Mrs. Foote, I think you'd better step down to six-eighteen and see what's—"
"I am wrong," said Martha Foote.
"What's that?"
"Nothing. Go on. Will I step down to six-eighteen and—?"
"She's sick, or something. Hysterics, I'd say. As far as I could make out it was something about a noise, or a sound or—Anyway, she can't locate it, and her maid says if we don't stop it right away—"
"I'll go down. Maybe it's the plumbing86. Or the radiator87. Did you ask?"
"No, nothing like that. She kept talking about a wail88."
"A what!"
"A wail. A kind of groaning89, you know. And then dull raps on the wall, behind the bed."
"Now look here, Ed Healy; I get up at 6:30, but I can't see a joke before ten. If you're trying to be funny!—"
"Funny! Why, say, listen, Mrs. Foote. I may be a night clerk, but I'm not so low as to get you out at half past six to spring a thing like that in fun. I mean it. So did she."
"But a kind of moaning! And then dull raps!"
"Those are her words. A kind of m—"
"Let's not make a chant of it. I think I get you. I'll be down there in ten minutes. Telephone her, will you?"
"Can't you make it five?"
"Not without skipping something vital."
Still, it couldn't have been a second over ten, including shoes, hair, and hooks-and-eyes. And a fresh white blouse. It was Martha Foote's theory that a hotel housekeeper, dressed for work, ought to be as inconspicuous as a steel engraving90. She would have been, too, if it hadn't been for her eyes.
She paused a moment before the door of six-eighteen and took a deep breath. At the first brisk rat-tat of her knuckles91 on the door there had sounded a shrill "Come in!" But before she could turn the knob the door was flung open by a kimonoed mulatto girl, her eyes all whites. The girl began to jabber92, incoherently but Martha Foote passed on through the little hall to the door of the bedroom.
Six-eighteen was in bed. At sight of her Martha Foote knew that she had to deal with an over-wrought woman. Her hair was pushed back wildly from her forehead. Her arms were clasped about her knees. At the left her nightgown had slipped down so that one plump white shoulder gleamed against the background of her streaming hair. The room was in almost comic disorder93. It was a room in which a struggle has taken place between its occupant and that burning-eyed hag, Sleeplessness95. The hag, it was plain, had won. A half-emptied glass of milk was on the table by the bed. Warmed, and sipped96 slowly, it had evidently failed to soothe6. A tray of dishes littered another table. Yesterday's dishes, their contents congealed97. Books and magazines, their covers spread wide as if they had been flung, sprawled98 where they lay. A little heap of grey-black cigarette stubs. The window curtain awry99 where she had stood there during a feverish100 moment of the sleepless94 night, looking down upon the lights of Grant Park and the sombre black void beyond that was Lake Michigan. A tiny satin bedroom slipper101 on a chair, its mate, sole up, peeping out from under the bed. A pair of satin slippers102 alone, distributed thus, would make a nun's cell look disreputable. Over all this disorder the ceiling lights, the wall lights, and the light from two rosy103 lamps, beat mercilessly down; and upon the white-faced woman in the bed.
She stared, hollow-eyed, at Martha Foote. Martha Foote, in the doorway104, gazed serenely105 back upon her. And Geisha McCoy's quick intelligence and drama-sense responded to the picture of this calm and capable figure in the midst of the feverish, over-lighted, over-heated room. In that moment the nervous pucker106 between her eyes ironed out ever so little, and something resembling a wan74 smile crept into her face. And what she said was:
"I wouldn't have believed it."
"Believed what?" inquired Martha Foote, pleasantly.
"That there was anybody left in the world who could look like that in a white shirtwaist at 6:30 A.M. Is that all your own hair?"
"Strictly107."
"Some people have all the luck," sighed Geisha McCoy, and dropped listlessly back on her pillows. Martha Foote came forward into the room. At that instant the woman in the bed sat up again, tense, every nerve strained in an attitude of listening. The mulatto girl had come swiftly to the foot of the bed and was clutching the footboard, her knuckles showing white.
"Listen!" A hissing108 whisper from the haggard woman in the bed. "What's that?"
"Wha' dat!" breathed the coloured girl, all her elegance109 gone, her every look and motion a hundred-year throwback to her voodoo-haunted ancestors.
The three women remained rigid110, listening. From the wall somewhere behind the bed came a low, weird111 monotonous112 sound, half wail, half croaking113 moan, like a banshee with a cold. A clanking, then, as of chains. A s-s-swish. Then three dull raps, seemingly from within the very wall itself.
The coloured girl was trembling. Her lips were moving, soundlessly. But Geisha McCoy's emotion was made of different stuff.
"Now look here," she said, desperately114, "I don't mind a sleepless night. I'm used to 'em. But usually I can drop off at five, for a little while. And that's been going on—well, I don't know how long. It's driving me crazy. Blanche, you fool, stop that hand wringing115! I tell you there's no such thing as ghosts. Now you"—she turned to Martha Foote again—"you tell me, for God's sake, what is that!"
And into Martha Foote's face there came such a look of mingled116 compassion117 and mirth as to bring a quick flame of fury into Geisha McCoy's eyes.
"Look here, you may think it's funny but—"
"I don't. I don't. Wait a minute." Martha Foote turned and was gone. An instant later the weird sounds ceased. The two women in the room looked toward the door, expectantly. And through it came Martha Foote, smiling. She turned and beckoned118 to some one without. "Come on," she said. "Come on." She put out a hand, encouragingly, and brought forward the shrinking, cowering119, timorous120 figure of Anna Czarnik, scrub-woman on the sixth floor. Her hand still on her shoulder Martha Foote led her to the centre of the room, where she stood, gazing dumbly about. She was the scrub-woman you've seen in every hotel from San Francisco to Scituate. A shapeless, moist, blue calico mass. Her shoes turned up ludicrously at the toes, as do the shoes of one who crawls her way backward, crab-like, on hands and knees. Her hands were the shrivelled, unlovely members that bespeak121 long and daily immersion122 in dirty water. But even had these invariable marks of her trade been lacking, you could not have failed to recognise her type by the large and glittering mock-diamond comb which failed to catch up her dank and stringy hair in the back.
One kindly123 hand on the woman's arm, Martha Foote performed the introduction.
"This is Mrs. Anna Czarnik, late of Poland. Widowed. Likewise childless. Also brotherless. Also many other uncomfortable things. But the life of the crowd in the scrub-girls' quarters on the top floor. Aren't you, Anna? Mrs. Anna Czarnik, I'm sorry to say, is the source of the blood-curdling moan, and the swishing, and the clanking, and the ghost-raps. There is a service stairway just on the other side of this wall. Anna Czarnik was performing her morning job of scrubbing it. The swishing was her wet rag. The clanking was her pail. The dull raps her scrubbing brush striking the stair corner just behind your wall."
"You're forgetting the wail," Geisha McCoy suggested, icily.
"No, I'm not. The wail, I'm afraid, was Anna Czarnik, singing."
"Singing?"
Martha Foote turned and spoke124 a gibberish of Polish and English to the bewildered woman at her side. Anna Czarnik's dull face lighted up ever so little.
"She says the thing she was singing is a Polish folk-song about death and sorrow, and it's called a—what was that, Anna?"
"Dumka."
"It's called a dumka. It's a song of mourning, you see? Of grief. And of bitterness against the invaders125 who have laid her country bare."
"Well, what's the idea!" demanded Geisha McCoy. "What kind of a hotel is this, anyway? Scrub-girls waking people up in the middle of the night with a Polish cabaret. If she wants to sing her hymn126 of hate why does she have to pick on me!"
"I'm sorry. You can go, Anna. No sing, remember! Sh-sh-sh!"
Anna Czarnik nodded and made her unwieldy escape.
Geisha McCoy waved a hand at the mulatto maid. "Go to your room, Blanche. I'll ring when I need you." The girl vanished, gratefully, without a backward glance at the disorderly room. Martha Foote felt herself dismissed, too. And yet she made no move to go. She stood there, in the middle of the room, and every housekeeper inch of her yearned127 to tidy the chaos128 all about her, and every sympathetic impulse urged her to comfort the nerve-tortured woman before her. Something of this must have shone in her face, for Geisha McCoy's tone was half-pettish, half-apologetic as she spoke.
"You've no business allowing things like that, you know. My nerves are all shot to pieces anyway. But even if they weren't, who could stand that kind of torture? A woman like that ought to lose her job for that. One word from me at the office and she—"
"Don't say it, then," interrupted Martha Foote, and came over to the bed. Mechanically her fingers straightened the tumbled covers, removed a jumble129 of magazines, flicked130 away the crumbs. "I'm sorry you were disturbed. The scrubbing can't be helped, of course, but there is a rule against unnecessary noise, and she shouldn't have been singing. But—well, I suppose she's got to find relief, somehow. Would you believe that woman is the cut-up of the top floor? She's a natural comedian131, and she does more for me in the way of keeping the other girls happy and satisfied than—"
"What about me? Where do I come in? Instead of sleeping until eleven I'm kept awake by this Polish dirge132. I go on at the Majestic at four, and again at 9.45 and I'm sick, I tell you! Sick!"
She looked it, too. Suddenly she twisted about and flung herself, face downward, on the pillow. "Oh, God!" she cried, without any particular expression. "Oh, God! Oh, God!"
That decided133 Martha Foote.
She crossed over to the other side of the bed, first flicking134 off the glaring top lights, sat down beside the shaken woman on the pillows, and laid a cool, light hand on her shoulder.
"It isn't as bad as that. Or it won't be, anyway, after you've told me about it."
She waited. Geisha McCoy remained as she was, face down. But she did not openly resent the hand on her shoulder. So Martha Foote waited. And as suddenly as Six-eighteen had flung herself prone135 she twisted about and sat up, breathing quickly. She passed a hand over her eyes and pushed back her streaming hair with an oddly desperate little gesture. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide.
"They've got away from me," she cried, and Martha Foote knew what she meant. "I can't hold 'em any more. I work as hard as ever—harder. That's it. It seems the harder I work the colder they get. Last week, in Indianapolis, they couldn't have been more indifferent if I'd been the educational film that closes the show. And, oh my God! They sit and knit."
"Knit!" echoed Martha Foote. "But everybody's knitting nowadays."
"Not when I'm on. They can't. But they do. There were three of them in the third row yesterday afternoon. One of 'em was doing a grey sock with four shiny needles. Four! I couldn't keep my eyes off of them. And the second was doing a sweater, and the third a helmet. I could tell by the shape. And you can't be funny, can you, when you're hypnotised by three stony-faced females all doubled up over a bunch of olive-drab? Olive-drab! I'm scared of it. It sticks out all over the house. Last night there were two young kids in uniform right down in the first row, centre, right. I'll bet the oldest wasn't twenty-three. There they sat, looking up at me with their baby faces. That's all they are. Kids. The house seems to be peppered with 'em. You wouldn't think olive-drab could stick out the way it does. I can see it farther than red. I can see it day and night. I can't seem to see anything else. I can't—"
Her head came down on her arms, that rested on her tight-hugged knees.
"Somebody of yours in it?" Martha Foote asked, quietly. She waited. Then she made a wild guess—an intuitive guess. "Son?"
"How did you know?" Geisha McCoy's head came up.
"I didn't."
"Well, you're right. There aren't fifty people in the world, outside my own friends, who know I've got a grown-up son. It's bad business to have them think you're middle-aged136. And besides, there's nothing of the stage about Fred. He's one of those square-jawed kids that are just cut out to be engineers. Third year at Boston Tech."
"Is he still there, then?"
"There! He's in France, that's where he is. Somewhere—in France. And I've worked for twenty-two years with everything in me just set, like an alarm-clock, for the time when that kid would step off on his own. He always hated to take money from me, and I loved him for it. I never went on that I didn't think of him. I never came off with a half dozen encores that I didn't wish he could hear it. Why, when I played a college town it used to be a riot, because I loved every fresh-faced boy in the house, and they knew it. And now—and now—what's there in it? What's there in it? I can't even hold 'em any more. I'm through, I tell you. I'm through!"
And waited to be disputed. Martha Foote did not disappoint her.
"There's just this in it. It's up to you to make those three women in the third row forget what they're knitting for, even if they don't forget their knitting. Let 'em go on knitting with their hands, but keep their heads off it. That's your job. You're lucky to have it."
"Lucky?"
"Yes ma'am! You can do all the dumka stuff in private, the way Anna Czarnik does, but it's up to you to make them laugh twice a day for twenty minutes."
"It's all very well for you to talk that cheer-o stuff. It hasn't come home to you, I can see that."
Martha Foote smiled. "If you don't mind my saying it, Miss McCoy, you're too worn out from lack of sleep to see anything clearly. You don't know me, but I do know you, you see. I know that a year ago Anna Czarnik would have been the most interesting thing in this town, for you. You'd have copied her clothes, and got a translation of her sob137 song, and made her as real to a thousand audiences as she was to us this morning; tragic138 history, patient animal face, comic shoes and all. And that's the trouble with you, my dear. When we begin to brood about our own troubles we lose what they call the human touch. And that's your business asset."
Geisha McCoy was looking up at her with a whimsical half-smile. "Look here. You know too much. You're not really the hotel housekeeper, are you?"
"I am."
"Well, then, you weren't always—"
"Yes I was. So far as I know I'm the only hotel housekeeper in history who can't look back to the time when she had three servants of her own, and her private carriage. I'm no decayed black-silk gentlewoman. Not me. My father drove a hack139 in Sorgham, Minnesota, and my mother took in boarders and I helped wait on table. I married when I was twenty, my man died two years later, and I've been earning my living ever since."
"Happy?"
"I must be, because I don't stop to think about it. It's part of my job to know everything that concerns the comfort of the guests in this hotel."
"Including hysterics in six-eighteen?"
"Including. And that reminds me. Up on the twelfth floor of this hotel there's a big, old-fashioned bedroom. In half an hour I can have that room made up with the softest linen sheets, and the curtains pulled down, and not a sound. That room's so restful it would put old Insomnia140 himself to sleep. Will you let me tuck you away in it?"
Geisha McCoy slid down among her rumpled141 covers, and nestled her head in the lumpy, tortured pillows. "Me! I'm going to stay right here."
"But this room's—why, it's as stale as a Pullman sleeper142. Let me have the chambermaid in to freshen it up while you're gone."
"I'm used to it. I've got to have a room mussed up, to feel at home in it. Thanks just the same."
Martha Foote rose, "I'm sorry. I just thought if I could help—"
Geisha McCoy leaned forward with one of her quick movements and caught Martha Foote's hand in both her own, "You have! And I don't mean to be rude when I tell you I haven't felt so much like sleeping in weeks. Just turn out those lights, will you? And sort of tiptoe out, to give the effect." Then, as Martha Foote reached the door, "And oh, say! D'you think she'd sell me those shoes?"
Martha Foote didn't get her dinner that night until almost eight, what with one thing and another. Still as days go, it wasn't so bad as Monday; she and Irish Nellie, who had come in to turn down her bed, agreed on that. The Senate Hotel housekeeper was having her dinner in her room. Tony, the waiter, had just brought it on and had set it out for her, a gleaming island of white linen, and dome-shaped metal tops. Irish Nellie, a privileged person always, waxed conversational143 as she folded back the bed covers in a neat triangular144 wedge.
"Six-eighteen kinda ca'med down, didn't she? High toime, the divil. She had us jumpin' yist'iddy. I loike t' went off me head wid her, and th' day girl th' same. Some folks ain't got no feelin', I dunno."
Martha Foote unfolded her napkin with a little tired gesture. "You can't always judge, Nellie. That woman's got a son who has gone to war, and she couldn't see her way clear to living without him. She's better now. I talked to her this evening at six. She said she had a fine afternoon."
"Shure, she ain't the only wan. An' what do you be hearin' from your boy, Mis' Phut, that's in France?"
"He's well, and happy. His arm's all healed, and he says he'll be in it again by the time I get his letter."
"Humph," said Irish Nellie. And prepared to leave. She cast an inquisitive145 eye over the little table as she made for the door—inquisitive, but kindly. Her wide Irish nostrils146 sniffed147 a familiar smell. "Well, fur th' land, Mis' Phut! If I was housekeeper here, an' cud have hothouse strawberries, an' swatebreads undher glass, an' sparrowgrass, an' chicken, an' ice crame, the way you can, whiniver yuh loike, I wouldn't be a-eatin' cornbeef an' cabbage. Not me."
"Oh, yes you would, Nellie," replied Martha Foote, quietly, and spooned up the thin amber gravy148. "Oh, yes you would."
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1
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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2
catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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conglomerate
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| n.综合商社，多元化集团公司 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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6
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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8
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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9
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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10
scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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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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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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16
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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tenors
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| n.男高音( tenor的名词复数 )；大意；男高音歌唱家；（文件的）抄本 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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19
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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20
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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21
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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22
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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24
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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26
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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30
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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31
minced
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| v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 )；剁碎；绞碎；用绞肉机绞（食物，尤指肉） | |
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32
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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33
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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34
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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36
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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37
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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38
cornucopias
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| n.丰饶角（象征丰饶的羊角，角内呈现满溢的鲜花、水果等）( cornucopia的名词复数 ) | |
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39
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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40
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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41
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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42
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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43
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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44
cramping
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| 图像压缩 | |
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45
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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46
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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47
indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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48
brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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49
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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50
oozy
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| adj.软泥的 | |
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51
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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52
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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53
nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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54
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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55
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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56
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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57
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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58
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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59
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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60
sorghum
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| n.高粱属的植物，高粱糖浆，甜得发腻的东西 | |
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61
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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62
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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63
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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66
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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67
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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68
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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69
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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71
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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72
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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73
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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74
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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76
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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79
hairpin
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| n.簪,束发夹，夹发针 | |
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80
shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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82
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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83
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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84
blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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85
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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86
plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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87
radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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88
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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90
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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91
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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92
jabber
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| v.快而不清楚地说；n.吱吱喳喳 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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98
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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100
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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101
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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102
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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103
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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104
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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106
pucker
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| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
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107
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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108
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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109
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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110
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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111
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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112
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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113
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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114
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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115
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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116
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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117
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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118
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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119
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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120
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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121
bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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122
immersion
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| n.沉浸；专心 | |
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123
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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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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125
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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126
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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127
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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129
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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130
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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131
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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132
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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133
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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134
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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135
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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136
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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137
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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138
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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139
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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140
insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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141
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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143
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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144
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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145
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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146
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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147
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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148
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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