Tredennis found him as the professor had described him, "a bright fellow, and a handsome fellow." He had thought that when he came forward to introduce himself, as he had done at the Gardners' reception, he had never seen a brighter or more attractive human being. He had a dark, delicate, eager face, soft, waving hair, tossed lightly back from a forehead whose beauty was almost feminine; a slight, lithe2 figure, and an air of youth and alertness which would have been attraction enough in itself. He was interested in everything: each subject touched upon seeming to awaken3 him to enthusiasm,—the Indians, the settlers, the agencies, the fort life,—equally interested in each, and equally ready to confront, in the most delightfully5 sanguine7 mood, the problems each suggested.
"It is worth a great deal to have an opportunity to judge of these things from the inside," he said. "There are a thousand questions I want to ask; but we shall see you often, of course. We must see you often. It will be the greatest pleasure to us."
His first entrance into their house, the following evening, was something which always set itself apart in Tredennis' memory.
A gay burst of laughter greeted him as the parlor[Pg 47] door was thrown open,—laughter so gay that the first announcement of his name was drowned by it, and, as he paused for a moment, he had the opportunity to take in fully6 the picture before him. The room was a pretty and luxurious8 one, its prettiness and luxury wearing the air of being the result of natural growth, and suggesting no oppressiveness of upholstery. Its comforts were evidently the outcome of the fancies and desires of those who lounged, or read, or talked in it, and its knick-knacks and follies9 were all indicative of some charming whim10 carried out with a delightful4 freedom from reason, which was their own excuse.
In the open fireplace a bright wood-fire burned, and upon the white wolf-skin before it Richard Amory lay at unconventional full length, with his hands clasped lightly under his head, evidently enjoying to the utmost the ease of his position, the glow of the fire, and the jest of the moment, while near him, in an easy-chair, sat Arbuthnot. Both of them looked at Bertha, who stood with one hand resting on the low mantel.
"I have been waiting for a long time," Tredennis heard her say, and then, as the servant announced his name again, she stopped speaking, and came forward to meet him, while Richard sprang lightly to his feet.
"I will tell you at the outset," she said, "that it is not one of the time-honored customs of Washington for people to receive their guests with this ingenuous11 and untrammelled freedom, but"—
"But she has been telling us a story," put in Richard, shaking hands with him; "and she told it so well that we forgot the time. And she must tell it again."
"It is not worth telling again," she said, as they returned to the fire; "and, besides, I told it to you in the strictest confidence. And if that is not reason enough, I don't mind confessing that it is a story which doesn't exhibit me in an amiable12 light. It shows a temper and viciousness that you count among your home comforts,[Pg 48] and don't feel it decent to display for the benefit of any one but your immediate13 relatives."
Tredennis looked down at her curiously14. His first glance at her had shown him that to-night she was even farther removed from his past than she had seemed before. Her rich dress showed flashes of bright color, her eyes were alight with some touch of excitement, and her little wrists were covered with pretty barbarities of bangles and charms which jingled15 as she moved.
"I should like to hear the story," he said.
"It is a very good story," commented Arbuthnot, laughing; "I think I would tell it over again."
"Oh, yes," said Richard; "Colonel Tredennis must hear it."
Bertha looked across at Tredennis, and as she did so he saw in her eyes what he had seen the night before and had not understood, but which dawned upon him now,—a slight smiling defiance16 of his thoughts, whatsoever17 they might be.
"You won't like it," she said; "but you shall hear it, if you wish. It is about a great lady"—
"That will add to the interest," said Tredennis. "You have great ladies in Washington?"
"It is infinitely18 to our credit that they are only occasional incidents," she answered, "and that they don't often last long. When one considers the number of quiet, domesticated20 women who find themselves launched suddenly, by some wave of chance, into the whirl of public life, one naturally wonders that we are not afflicted21 with some very great ladies indeed; but it must be confessed we have far less to complain of in that respect than might be expected."
"But this particular great lady?" said Tredennis.
"Is one of the occasional incidents. Some one said that our society was led by bewildered Europeans and astonished Americans,—Americans astonished to find themselves suddenly bearing the responsibility of the highest positions, and Europeans bewildered by being[Pg 49] called upon to adjust themselves to startling novelties in manners and customs. This great lady is one of the astonished Americans, and, privately22, she is very much astonished, indeed."
Arbuthnot laughed.
"You will observe," he commented, "that Mrs. Amory's remarks are entirely23 unbiassed by any feminine prejudices."
"You will observe," said Bertha, "that Mr. Arbuthnot's remarks are entirely unbiassed by any prejudice in favor of my reliability24 of statement. But," she added, with a delusive25 air of amiable candor26, "I am sure you cannot deny that I was very civil to her."
"I have not a doubt of it," responded Arbuthnot. "And I don't mind adding that I should like to have been there to see."
"Colonel Tredennis shall judge," she said, "whether it would have been really worth while. I will make the story brief. Last season the great lady gave me cause to remember her. We had not met, and, to please a friend, I called upon her. We found her in her drawing-room, engaged in entertaining two new newly arrived attachés. They seemed to interest her. I regret to say that we did not. She did not hear our names when the servant announced them, and the insignificance27 of our general bearing was against us. I think it must have been that, for we were comparatively well dressed—at least, Miss Jessup's description of our costumes in the 'Wabash Times' gave that impression the following week. Perhaps we looked timid and unaccustomed to 'the luxurious trophies28 from many climes' (Miss Jessup again) surrounding us. The ingenuous modesty29 of extreme youth which you may have observed"—
"Repeatedly," replied Arbuthnot.
"Thank you. But I suppose it told against me on this occasion. Our respectable attire30 and air of general worthiness31 availed nothing. The great lady rose, stared at us, gave us her finger-ends, called us by names which[Pg 50] did not belong to us, and sat down again, turning her back upon us with much frankness, and resuming her conversation with the attachés, not interrupting it to address six words to us during the three minutes we remained. That is the first half of the story."
"It promises well for the second half," said Tredennis.
"The second is my half," said Bertha. "Later, she discovered our real names, and the fact that—shall I say that Miss Jessup knew them, and thought them worthy32 of mention in the 'Wabash Times'? That would, perhaps, be a good way of putting it. Then she called, but did not see me, as I was out. We did not meet again until this afternoon. I was making the Cabinet calls, and had the pleasure of encountering her at the house of the Secretary of War. Perhaps Miss Jessup had sent her a copy of the 'Wabash Times' yesterday, with the society column marked—I don't know. But she was pleased to approach me. I received her advances with the mild consideration of one who sees a mistake made, but is prevented by an amiable delicacy33 from correcting it, and observing this, she was led into the indiscretion of saying, with graceful34 leniency35, that she feared I did not know her. I think it is really there that my half begins. I smiled with flattering incredulity, and said, 'That would be very strange in a Washingtonian.'
"'When you called'—she began.
"I looked at her with a blush, as of slight embarrassment36, which seemed to disturb her.
"'You have not forgotten that you called?' she remarked, chillingly.
"'It would have been impossible for me to forget anything so agreeable,' I said, as though in delicately eager apology. 'I am most unlucky. It was some more fortunate person.'
"'But,' she said, 'I returned the visit.'
"'I received your card,' I replied, smiling ingenuously[Pg 51] into her eyes, 'and it reminded me of my delinquency. Of course I knew it was a mistake.'
"And after I had smiled into her eyes for a second or so longer, she began to understand, and I think by this time it is quite clear to her."
"There must be a moral to that," commented Tredennis.
"There is," she responded, with serene37 readiness. "A useful one. It is this: It is always safe—in Washington—to be civil to the respectably clad. If the exigencies38 of public position demand that you receive, not the people you wish to see, or the people who wish to see you, but the respectably clad, it is well to deal in glittering generalities of good manners, and even—if you choose to go so far—good feeling. There are numbers of socially besieged39 women in Washington who actually put the good feeling first; but the Government cannot insist on that, you know, so it remains40 a matter of taste."
"If you could draw the line"—began Richard.
"There is no line," said Bertha, "so you can't draw it. And it was not myself I avenged41 this afternoon, but—the respectably clad."
"And before she became an astonished American," put in Arbuthnot, "this mistaken person was possibly"—
Bertha interposed, with a pretty gesture which set all the bangles jingling42.
"Ah," she said, "but we have so little to do with that, that I have not even the pleasure of using it in my arguments against her. The only thing to be reasonably required of her now is that she should be sufficiently43 well-mannered during her career. She might assume her deportment with her position, and dispose of it at a sacrifice afterward. Imagine what a field in the way of advertisement, for instance: 'For sale. A neatly44 fitting suit of good manners. Used through one Administration. Somewhat worn through active service, but still equal to much wear and tear.'"
[Pg 52]
That which struck Tredennis more forcibly than all else was her habit of treating everything lightly, and he observed that it was a habit Arbuthnot shared with her. The intimacy45 existing between the two seemed an unusual one, and appeared to have established itself through slow and gradual growth. It had no ephemeral air, and bore somehow the impress of their having shared their experiences in common for some time. Beneath the very derision which marked their treatment of each other was a suggestion of unmistakable good fellowship and quick appreciation46 of each other's moods. When Bertha made a fanciful speech, Arbuthnot's laugh rang out even before Richard's, which certainly was ready enough in response; and when Arbuthnot vouchsafed47 a semi-serious remark, Bertha gave him an undivided attention which expressed her belief that what he said would be worth listening to. Amory's province it seemed to be to delight in both of them,—to admire their readiness, to applaud their jests, and to encourage them to display their powers. That he admired Arbuthnot immensely was no less evident than that no gift or grace of Bertha's was lost upon him.
His light-hearted, inconsequent enjoyment48 of the pleasure of the moment impressed Tredennis singularly. He was so ready to be moved by any passing zephyr49 of sentiment or emotion, and so entirely and sweet-temperedly free from any fatiguing50 effect when the breeze had once swept over him.
"All that I have to complain of in you two people," he said, gayly, in the course of the evening, "is that you have no sentiment—none whatever."
"We are full of it," said Arbuthnot, "both of us,—but we conceal51 it, and we feel that it makes us interesting. Nothing is more interesting than repressed emotion. The appearance of sardonic52 coldness and stoicism which has deceived you is but a hollow mockery; beneath it I secrete53 a maelstrom54 of impassioned feeling and a mausoleum of blighted55 hopes."
[Pg 53]
"There is a fashion in emotions as in everything else," said Bertha. "And sentiment is 'out.' So is stateliness. Who would submit to stateliness in these days? It was the highest aim of our great-grandmothers to be stately; but stateliness went out with ruffles56 and the minuet, and a certain kind of Roman nose you find in all portraits taken in the reigns57 of the Georges. Now we are sprightly58. It is imperative59 that we should be sprightly. I hope you are prepared to be sprightly, Colonel Tredennis."
He was very conscious of not looking so. In fact, the idea was growing upon him that upon the whole his grave face and large figure were rather out of place among all this airy badinage60. His predominant feeling was that his unfortunate tendency to seriousness and silence was not a Washingtonian quality, and augured61 poorly for his future. Here were people who could treat lightly, not only their subjects, but themselves and each other. The fire-lit room, with its trifles and knick-knacks and oddities; the graceful, easy figure of Richard Amory lounging idly in his chair; Bertha, with her bright dress and fantastic little ornaments62 flashing and jingling; Arbuthnot smiling faintly, and touching63 his mustache with a long, fair hand,—each and all suggested to him in some whimsical, vague fashion that he was too large and not pliable64 enough for his surroundings, and that if he moved he might upset something, or tread upon some sparkling, not too substantial theory.
"I am afraid I am not as well prepared as I might be," he answered. "Do you always find it easy?"
"I!" she returned. "Oh, perfectly65! it is only Mr. Arbuthnot who finds it difficult—being a prey66 to his feelings. In his moments of deep mental anguish67 the sprightliness68 which society demands of him is a thing from which his soul recoils69."
Shortly after dinner Arbuthnot went away. He had a final call to make upon some friends who were going[Pg 54] away, after having taken an active part in the inaugural70 ceremonies and ball. It appeared that they had come from the West, with the laudable intention of making the most of these festivities, and that he had felt it his duty to do his utmost for their entertainment.
"I hope they enjoyed themselves," said Bertha, as he stood making his adieus.
"Well," was his reply, "it strikes me they did. I took them to the Treasury71, and the Patent Office, and the Army and Navy Department, and up into the dome19 of the Capitol, and into the Senate and the House, and they heard the inaugural address, and danced at the ball, and saw the ex-President and bought photographs of the new one, and tired themselves out, and are going home a party of total wrecks72, but without a thing on their consciences; so I think they must have enjoyed themselves. I hope so. I didn't. I don't grudge73 them anything; but it is the ninetieth time I have been through the Treasury, and the twentieth time I have climbed to the dome, and the exercise has lost its freshness."
After he had left the room he returned, drawing from the pocket of his rather dandyfied light overcoat three small packages, which he laid on a side-table.
"This is for Janey, and this for Jack74, and this for Marjorie," he said. "I told them they would find them there in the morning."
"Thank you," answered Bertha, as if the proceeding75 was one to which she was well accustomed.
When he was fairly gone Richard Amory broke into a half laugh.
"What a queer fellow he is!" he said.
Bertha returned to her place by the fire, taking from the mantel a little screen of peacock feathers and shading her face with it.
"Do you know," she said, "that he rarely leaves the house without one of us making that remark, and yet it always has an illusive76 air of being entirely new."
[Pg 55]
"Well," remarked Richard, "he is a queer fellow, and there's no denying it. Imagine a fellow like that coolly rambling77 about with neat packages of bonbons78 in his fastidious overcoat pocket, to be bestowed79 on children without any particular claim on him. Why does he do it?"
"It doesn't exactly arise from enthusiasm awakened80 by their infant charms," said Bertha, "and he never professed81 that it did."
"But he must care for them a little," returned Richard.
"The fact is that you don't know what he cares for," said Bertha, "and it is rather one of his fascinations82. I suppose that is really what we mean by saying he is a queer fellow."
"At all events," said Richard, amiably83, "he is a nice fellow, and one can manage to subsist84 on that. All I complain of is that he hasn't any object. A man ought to have an object—two or three, if he likes."
"He doesn't like," said Bertha, "for he certainly hasn't an object—though, after all, that belongs to his mode of life."
"I should like," said Tredennis, "to know something of the mode of life of a man who hasn't an object."
"You will gain a good deal of information on the subject if you remain long in Washington," answered Bertha. "We generally have either too many objects or none at all. If it is not your object to get into the White House, or the Cabinet, or somewhere else, it is probably your fate to be installed in a 'department;' and, as you cannot hope to retain your position through any particular circumspectness or fitness for it, you have not any object left you."
"The fact is," said Richard, "it would have been a great deal better for Larry if he had stayed where he was and fought it out."
"The fact is," said Bertha, "it would be a great deal better for nine out of ten of the rest if they stayed where they were. And when Larry came he did not come[Pg 56] under specially85 exhilarating circumstances, and just then I suppose it seemed to him that the rest of his life was not worth much to him."
"It has struck me," said Richard, reflectively, "that he had a blow of some sort about that time,—something apart from the loss of his fortune. I am not sure but that I once heard some wandering rumor86 of there being a young woman somewhere"—
"Oh!" said Bertha, in a low, rather hurried voice, "he had a blow. There is no mistake about that,—he had a blow, and there was a good deal in him that did not survive it."
"And yet he doesn't strike you as being that sort of fellow," said Richard, still in reflection. "You wouldn't think of him as being a fellow with a grief."
Bertha broke into delighted laughter.
"A grief!" she exclaimed. "That is very good. I wish he had heard it. A grief! I wonder what he would do with it in his moments of recreation,—at receptions, for instance, and musicales, and germans. He might conceal it in his opera hat, but I am afraid it would be in the way. Poor Larry! Griefs are as much out of fashion as stateliness, and he not only couldn't indulge in one if he would, but he wouldn't if he could."
"Well, how would you put it," said Richard, "if you did not call it a grief?"
Bertha laughed again.
"If I put it at all," she answered, "I would say that he had once been very uncomfortable, but had discreetly87 devoted88 himself to getting over it, and had succeeded decently well; and last, but not least, I would add that it would be decidedly difficult to make him uncomfortable again."
Tredennis found it impossible to avoid watching her with grave interest each time she spoke89 or moved. He was watching her now with a sort of aside sensibility to her bright drapery, her flashing, tinkling90 wrists, and her screen of peacock feathers.
[Pg 57]
"She is very light," he was saying inwardly.
She turned to him with a smile.
"Would he strike you as 'a fellow with a grief'?" she inquired.
"No," he answered; "I cannot say he would."
"No," she said, "that is certain enough. If you went away and never saw him again, you would remember just this of him—if you remembered him at all: that his clothes fitted him well, that he had an agreeable laugh, that he had a civil air of giving you his attention when you spoke, and—nothing else."
"And that is not all there is of him?" Tredennis asked.
She looked down at her feather screen, still smiling slightly.
"No," she answered, rather slowly, "not quite all; but even I don't quite know how much more there is, and Richard, who has known him at intervals91 all his life, lapses92 into speaking of him as 'a fellow with a grief.'"
Richard rose from his chair.
"Oh," he said, with much cheerfulness, "there is no denying that you two are the outgrowth of an effete93 civilization. You are always arriving at logical deductions94 concerning each other, and you have a tendency to the derision of all the softer emotions. You are a couple of world-worn creatures, and it is left to me to represent the youth and ardor95 of the family."
"That is true," said Bertha, in her soft, mocking voice. "We are battered96 and worldly wise—and we have no object."
"But I have," said Richard, "and if Colonel Tredennis will come upstairs with me, I will show him what a few of them are, if he takes an interest in such things."
"What," said Bertha,—"the laboratory, or the library, or"—
"All of them," he answered, "including the new [Pg 58]collection." And he turned upon Tredennis the brightest imaginable smile.
Tredennis left his chair in response to it.
"I am interested in all collections, more or less," he said.
"So am I," said Bertha—"more or less." And they went out of the room with this little gibe97 in their ears.
Before the conclusion of his visit to the domains98 upstairs Tredennis had learned a great deal of Richard Amory. He had found that he had a taste for mechanics, a taste for science, a taste for literature. He had a geological cabinet, an entomological collection, a collection of coins, of old books, of old engravings, all in different stages of incompleteness. He had, even, in his small workroom, the unfinished models of an invention or two, each of which he was ready to explain with an enthusiasm which flamed up as the demands of the moment required, in the most delightful and inspiring manner.
"I shall finish them all, one of these days," he said, blithely99. "I am always interested in one or the other, and they give me an object. And, as I said downstairs, what a man wants is an object. That is what Larry stands in need of. Give him an object, and he would not indulge in that cold-blooded introspection and retrospection. Bertha has told him so herself."
"They are very good friends," said Tredennis.
"Oh, yes! They are fond of each other, in their way. It is their way to jeer100 a good deal, but they would stand by each other, I fancy, if the time came when it was needful."
He referred, in the course of the conversation, to his profession, and his reference to it caused Tredennis to class it in his mind, in some way or other, with the unfinished models and incomplete collections.
"I can't say I like the law," he said, "but it was a sort of final resource. I tried medicine for a while,—took a course of lectures; but it didn't suit me. And[Pg 59] then two or three other things turned up, but I didn't seem to suit them. And so it ended in my choosing law, or letting it choose me. I don't know that I am exactly a success at it. It's well we don't depend on it. Bertha"—He broke off rather suddenly, and began again at once. "I have plans which, if they are as successful as they promise to be, will change the aspect of affairs." And he laughed exultantly101.
On their way downstairs they came upon an open door, which had been closed as they went up. It opened into a large, cheerful room, with gay pictures on the walls, and a high brass102 fender guarding the glowing fire, before which a figure sat in a low rocking-chair, holding a child in its arms.
"That is the nursery," said Richard. "Bertha, what is the matter with Janey?"
It was Bertha who sat in the rocking-chair, and as she turned her face quietly toward them Tredennis felt himself betrayed into a slight start. Neither her eyes nor her color were as bright as they had been downstairs. She had taken off her ornaments, and they lay in a small glittering heap upon the stand at her side. The child's head rested upon her breast, and her bare arm and hand held its body in an easy position with a light, close, accustomed touch. She spoke in a soft, lowered voice.
"Janey is nervous to-night," she answered. "She cannot go to sleep, and I am trying to quiet her. Will you excuse me if I do not come down? She really needs me."
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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immediate
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curiously
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jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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whatsoever
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infinitely
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dome
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domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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privately
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entirely
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reliability
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delusive
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candor
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insignificance
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trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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modesty
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attire
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worthiness
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worthy
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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leniency
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| n.宽大（不严厉） | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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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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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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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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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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49
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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secrete
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| vt.分泌；隐匿，使隐秘 | |
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maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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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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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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recoils
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| n.（尤指枪炮的）反冲，后坐力( recoil的名词复数 )v.畏缩( recoil的第三人称单数 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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inaugural
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| adj.就职的；n.就职典礼 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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82
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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83
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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84
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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85
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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86
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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87
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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88
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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89
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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90
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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91
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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96
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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98
domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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100
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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101
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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102
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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