‘I could row you over,’ he said, ‘any day. From Cookesley to Renton is an easy pull. Let us make up a party and do it. The river is lovely, and if you have not seen it before——’
‘I have never been higher up than Cookesley,’ said Nelly; and thus it was arranged, though Mrs. Rich shook her head.
‘We shall see when the time comes,’ that wise mother said; and Frank perceived that it was only in case his mother should make up her mind to be civil that this little expedition would be permitted.
He made himself very agreeable to Nelly that evening, undismayed by the events of the afternoon. Alice was out of the way. She was at the other end of the room, looking over engravings, and resisting Alf’s entreaties16 that she should play something. ‘Nelly would not like it,’ she said to herself; ‘she is talking, and she likes that better.’ And Alice felt{v.2-237} herself somewhat silent and wistful, and wished herself back in Fitzroy Square. That evening it appeared to her that she was not enjoying her visit as she had expected to do. She missed her mother, and she missed the children, and Miss Hadley, and her usual duties, and perhaps something else too, though she did not know what was in her own thoughts. Sometimes she cast a wistful glance across the room at Nelly smiling and softened17, with that look of absorbed attention in her brilliant eyes. Alice had been shocked by her friend’s freedom of speech, but, as was so natural, impressed by it also. Unconsciously she herself began to speculate about Nelly. Could there be—as girls say—anything between her and Frank Renton? Was that why she was cross, and was it not the music? Alice felt herself to be pushed aside, and it was not a cheerful feeling; but fortunately the only form it took was a longing18 for home. She had home to fall back upon whatever might befall her here. If any vague discontent came down upon her heart, happiness and peace, as of old, dwelt and waited for her in the Square. This was her feeling, as she sat in the distant corner looking over the photographs. Alf had settled down sulkily when she refused to play to him, on a sofa near, and Mr. Rich slept the sleep of the just, the Sunday evening crown of the week’s exertion19, in an easy chair midway between her and the table, with a lamp burning brilliantly upon it, round which were{v.2-238} grouped Mrs. Rich and Nelly and the young visitor. When Alice saw them laughing and talking, she felt that she would have liked to be there too, and have a part in the fun. But they did not call her, and she was too shy to go unasked, and she found the evening a little long.
When Frank Renton left Richmont the next morning it was with a mind by no means settled or at rest. He had received the warmest invitations to return from the parent pair, and Nelly was not slow to intimate that she looked for him soon. ‘Come over here when Lord Edgbaston’s refined society palls20 upon you,’ Nelly said. ‘Indeed, Edgbaston is a very good fellow,’ Frank answered, apologetically. ‘I know he is a lord,’ was Nelly’s reply. She did not care for a lord, nor had she given so much of her society or conversation to any one of her followers21, though many of them were much more eligible22 in every way than Frank. This compliment went to the bottom of his heart. No doubt she was full of intelligence and discrimination, and could see the difference between one man and another; and she was, when she liked, the brightest little sympathetic creature, and awfully23 clever,—clever enough to make up a man’s deficiencies in that way; but yet——! These were the young man’s thoughts as he walked down to Cookesley to get his boat. He was going to the Manor25, after all, to see his mother; and on the way he turned everything over{v.2-239} again in his mind. Nelly was very nice, when she pleased; and though her connexions were nothing to brag26 of, still that was not a thing which people took into severe consideration when a man married money, especially when the money was young and pretty. And yet——! Frank could not but ask himself how it was that the girl who took a fellow’s fancy—the one he would really have gone after had he been able to choose for himself—should never be the one who had the fifty thousand pounds. It was a curious spite of fortune. When he directed his mind to the serious consideration of this grand question—the first great social problem he had ever tackled on his own account—a singular dissipating influence always arrested him. Stray notes of music would float across his mind,—a bit of a melody which compelled him to hum it,—a perplexing bar which would separate from everything else, and echo in his ear. And when he returned to the consideration of Nelly Rich, another little agile27 figure stepped in before her, the one shadow jostling the other out of the way with a curious reality. It was not he who did it, nor had his will any share in the matter. They did it themselves, independent of any influence of his. So that the more he thought it over the more perplexed28 he became; and yet it was not a matter which could be suffered to run on and be decided29 any time. It must be settled, and that at once.
With his head full of these thoughts, he walked{v.2-240} down across the cheerful, blooming country to Cookesley. The day was quite bright enough for the expedition he had proposed to Nelly; and when the recollection of this proposed expedition came back to his mind, Frank fell into pondering whether his mother would call. Why should she not call? It was quite true that she was an invalid30; and also true that she was in the deepest of mourning; but still, the carriage, with Mary in it, and a card, would do. Mere31 civility! he said to himself. And if it should be for Laurie’s interest,—or even for his own! Instead of going to India. Frank knew that his mother would have visited anybody in the country on that inducement. And it might come to that. He stepped into his boat with so serious a countenance32 that the men at the wharf33 took note of it. ‘Them Rentons, they ain’t up to no good,’ one said to another. ‘The eldest34 gentleman, as was here the other day, was awful changed, and this one, as is the swellest of all, looks as black as if he was a-carrying of the world on his shoulders.’ This chance observation Frank overheard as he glided35 his boat through the maze36 of skiffs into clear water. It made him smile when he was fairly afloat and out of reach of observation. He had more than the world on his shoulders. What would the mere world have been, or any superficial weight, compared to the task of deciding what his whole life was to be? According as he made up his mind now would be{v.2-241} the direction and colour of his existence. No wonder he looked black. But how was it that the eldest gentleman had so changed? And Laurie was gone without giving any reason. It was hard to think that it was their father’s fault,—the father who had been so good to them. Seven months before they had all looked up to him with the undoubting, affectionate confidence of sons who had never known anything but kindness; and now they were all scattered37 to the different corners of the world, separated from each other, broken up, and set adrift. Frank was more a man of the world than either of his brothers, though he was so young. He could not but ask himself,—Was not old Rich right? Mr. Renton’s mind must have been touched. He could not have been guilty of such an injury to them all had he been in full possession of his reason. Thus, if he did not look black, he looked at least very grave, as he pulled up the river, unlike the light-hearted young Guardsman who had so often made the banks ring with his laughter and boyish nonsense. He was approaching his twenty-first birthday, and he was having the grand problem submitted to his decision. It was not pleasure and virtue38, certainly, which stood before him offering; him the irrevocable choice. There was no particular sin in adopting either course, and no unspeakable delight; nothing infinitely39 seductive to move his senses, or loftily excellent to restrain them. If he were to marry Nelly and stay at home, he{v.2-242} would be to all intents and purposes as good and as honest as if he went to India. And if he went to India he would be sufficiently40 well off, and quite as happy,—perhaps happier than if he stayed at home. The question was a fine modern one between two neutral shades of well-doing, and not a primitive41 alternative between black and white, salvation42 and ruin. You will say that to marry a girl he did not love would have been a sin; but Frank did not see it in that light. If he did marry her, no doubt they would get on very well together. Nelly was not, as we have already said, a temptation to be resisted, but, most probably, a sober duty which he ought not to neglect. He was not passionate43, like Ben, nor was he meditative44, like his brother Laurie. He was the practical man of the family. If it had been decided to be right, no doubt he would have done it like a man, and been quite comfortable ever after. The difficulty was that there was too much neutral tint45 about the whole question. It was possible that he might do quite as well for himself in India as by marrying money. The chances were too equal, the gain too uncertain, to make the decision easy.
Mrs. Renton received him as usual in her dim room with the blinds down, a bottle of medicine on the table, and her arrowroot in the background. It was a different atmosphere, certainly, from that of Richmont. His mother wept a few tears as Frank kissed her. She was apt to do so now-a-days when one{v.2-243} of her sons appeared. And Ben’s farewell visit had been but a few days before, and had shaken her more than anything that had happened since her husband’s death. She could do nothing but talk of him. ‘He was looking quite well, Frank, quite well,’ she said, over and over again, ‘though I am sure living shut up in London all winter would have killed any one else. And he is to sail on Friday,’ Mrs. Renton added with a sigh. As for Mary Westbury, she, too, bore traces of having been moved by Ben’s visit. ‘Oh, he is quite in good spirits about going,’ she interposed. ‘I think he likes the idea.’ Frank, with his new-born experience, felt at once that something must have happened, and that all was not merely simple, straightforward46, cousinly friendship between Mary and Ben.
‘I suppose that was why you did not send for me,’ he said; ‘but, mamma, you must take the consequences. Instead of only dining at Richmont, I have passed the Sunday there, and I hope you will be so polite as to call. They are very good sort of people, and they have been very kind to me.’
‘Those new people!’ said Mrs. Renton. ‘What a house for you to spend Sunday in! Your note never came till yesterday, when the servants came back from church; and I thought of course you must have gone back to Royalborough. Mary will tell you all about it, and how we consulted what to do.{v.2-244}’
‘But, mother, I want you to call on Mrs. Rich,’ repeated Frank.
‘My dear!’ said Mrs. Renton, sitting up on her sofa.
But Frank was aware that she must not be allowed to stand up for herself, and confirm her own resolution by talk. ‘They are friends of Laurie’s,’ he said, making a little gulp47 at the fib; ‘they are fond of him, and they may have it in their power to be kind to him, too. They are going to Italy next year.’
‘My poor Laurie!’ cried Mrs. Renton. ‘He has written me such a nice letter. He says he could not come to say good-bye; that it would have been too much for him. So he says; but I am sure he was afraid to come to let me see how pale he was looking. You don’t think it is anything about his lungs which has taken him to Italy? He might confide13 in you.’
‘Why it is for his pictures, not his lungs,’ said Frank, with the cheerful confidence of ignorance. ‘Those Riches are friends of his. I am sure it would be good for him if you could make up your mind to call. Don’t you think he is the sort of man who ought to marry money?’ Frank added, with a little embarrassment48, after a pause.
‘To marry money! Is he thinking of marrying?—and he has nothing!’ cried Mrs. Renton, with consternation49.{v.2-245}
‘But if she had a good deal?’ said Frank. ‘He will never make any way for himself. Don’t you see, he is too good-natured and kind for that. So I think a nice little fortune that would keep him comfortable would be the very finest thing for Laurie. And I wish you would call at Richmont.’
‘Is it Miss Rich that is to supply the little fortune?’ asked Mary, with a smile.
‘Miss Rich is very nice,’ said Frank, with some indignation. Though he spoke50 thus of Laurie, it was not with any particular hope in respect to him. But if he himself should marry Nelly,—which seemed much more likely,—he would not drop any word which could be brought up against her. ‘She is very accomplished51, and draws beautifully; but unless you can get my mother to attend to ordinary civility, they can’t be expected to like it. And it may be the worse for both Laurie and me.’
‘Neither Laurie nor you should have anything to do with such people,’ said Mrs. Renton; and then she stopped short, and a new current of thinking rose up in her mind. ‘I do not like such things to be spoken of, Frank,’ she said. ‘It is disgusting to hear some people talk of marrying money. Has the young lady a great fortune? Did you say she was nice? Sometimes the children of those vulgar people are wonderfully well brought up. They get all that money can buy, of course. And did you say they were fond of Laurie? He has never mentioned{v.2-246} them in any of his letters. Poor Laurie! Will his pictures ever bring him in any money, I wonder? And he never can go travelling about on his allowance,—that is impossible. Did you say Miss Rich had a very large fortune, Frank?’
‘Enough to be comfortable upon,’ said the Guardsman. ‘They would be immensely pleased if you would call.’
‘Oh, my dear, I am not strong enough, nor in spirits to call anywhere,’ said Mrs. Renton, sinking back on her pillows. But the seed had been dropped in the soil. Mary Westbury’s opinion, when she and Frank were alone, was that she would go. Frank, for his part, found himself a great deal more anxious about it than he had the least idea he was. Perhaps because of Nelly; perhaps only because of the difficulty,—he could scarcely say.
‘I shall feel very small if she does not go,’ he confided52 to Mary; ‘and really, you know, I had not the least claim upon them, and they were very kind to me.’
‘I thought you said they were friends of Laurie’s,’ said Mary. ‘He never mentioned them in any way; but people have begun to gossip about you, Frank. I nearly laughed when you were talking so wisely of Laurie. It never occurred to you that other people might be behind the scenes and know better. Everybody says it is you.’
‘What is me?’ said Frank, with some heat. ‘I{v.2-247} did not think you were the sort of girl to repeat such folly53. Because Nelly Rich is a nice bright little thing, and would be the very thing for Laurie——’
‘Laurie again!’ cried Mary, laughing. ‘You are the strangest figure for a match-maker! They say, Frank, that these good people have quite made up their mind to have a gentleman of Berks for their daughter: and that is why they have always been so interested about us. And then they came to know you,—the very thing they want. I don’t know if it is true, but that is what they say.’
‘They say a great deal of nonsense,’ said Frank. ‘But, Mary, I have never had an opportunity to ask you anything. How about Ben?’
And now it was Mary’s turn to change countenance. ‘I don’t think there is much to tell about Ben,’ she said, with unusual curtness54 of expression. ‘He is going to America, you know.’
‘But there is something more than that,’ said Frank. ‘I can read it in your face.’
‘Then you know more than I do,’ said Mary Westbury, cooling down into that dogmatic obduracy55 and calmness which is a gift of woman. ‘I am sure Ben did not confide in me.’
No—and wild horses would not have drawn anything further from her, that was evident. Mary, who was always so open, and candid56, and straightforward, closed up in a moment, put shutters57 to all her windows, sealed her lips as if hermetically. If{v.2-248} there had been nothing this would not have been necessary; but Frank had not time to go fully24 into the question. He gave her a keen, scrutinising glance, and then was silent. No doubt Ben had got into some scrape or other; but that his brother was not to know anything about it was equally clear.
‘It is dreadful that you should all be going off at once,’ said Mary. ‘Ben did come to bid us good-bye, but Laurie has disappeared without even so much as that. I wish you would tell me something about Laurie, Frank. He must have known somebody better than the Riches surely;—some of those artist people. When you went to see him in town did you never see any of his friends?’
‘Laurie’s friends?’ said the Guardsman, and it is undeniable that certain confusion stole over him. It was a kind of duel58 that was taking place between his cousin and himself. They were both of clearer sight than usual, enlightened by experience,—both anxious to find out something they did not know, and conceal59 something they did. ‘Oh, yes,’ Frank went on carelessly, ‘I have seen several of his friends;—Suffolk, the painter,—though I don’t suppose you ever heard of him; and there is a Mrs. Severn, in Fitzroy Square,—I think he was most intimate there.’
‘Tell me about her,’ cried Mary. ‘It is so odd of Laurie to go away without coming home; something must have happened to him. It might not be{v.2-249} anything of that kind, of course; but tell me,—were there daughters? or any one?’
Frank cleared his throat, nor could he keep a certain glow of colour from mounting to his temples,—most foolish and uncalled for, it was no doubt,—for Mrs. Severn’s household was not, and never could be, anything to him. Either it was Mary’s eyes looking at him so keenly, or simply a little excitement hanging about himself. Or he must have taken cold somehow on the river.
‘Daughters?’ he said. ‘Oh,—well,—children, that’s all; there is one little girl that plays charmingly,’ Frank added, with easy candour; ‘but Laurie never cared for music. I don’t think there’s anything in that.’
‘And it could not be Miss Rich?’ said Mary, fixing her eyes more keenly than ever on the young fellow’s face.
Then his countenance cleared. He was himself unaware60 of the change of expression, but Mary saw it, and perceived at once that Nelly, though he talked of her so much, was not dangerous ground to Frank. ‘No; frankly61, I don’t think it could be Miss Rich,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘I think it would be a capital thing for both; but I cannot say that I believe either of them have thought of it for themselves.’
‘But this Mrs. Severn——?’ insisted Mary, and she was aware of an immediate62 gleam of intelligence and embarrassment in his eyes.{v.2-250}
‘She is a painter’ said Frank, ‘and a widow, and a very nice woman,—at least I suppose so. To hear Laurie chattering63 to her you would think he found her so. I cannot say I remarked it particularly myself.’
‘And young?’ said Mary, breathless with her discovery.
‘Oh dear, no,’ said Frank, ‘not at all young;—not old either, I suppose. A certain age, you know; that sort of thing. But really, if you are interested about her, you must apply to Miss Rich. I did not observe her much. Her little girl,’ Frank continued, with again that soft drop of the eyelids64, and gleam of sudden light from beneath them,—‘she I told you of, who plays so charmingly,—is at Richmont now.’
‘Oh!’ said Mary. And Frank turned away to the window as if the conversation had come to a natural end. And as for his cousin, she seemed suddenly to have made a discovery; and yet, when she thought it over, could not make out what the discovery was. The little girl who played could not surely have anything to do with Laurie; or was it Frank himself who was moved by her music,—or,—. Mary was left as much in the dark as at the beginning. ‘The boys’ had all gone off on their separate courses; they had escaped out of the hands of their old confidante and unfailing sympathiser; and the idea grieved her. She would have given{v.2-251} a great deal to have been able to read the meaning of that look in her young cousin’s eyes. She would have liked in all sisterly tenderness and faithfulness to fathom65 Laurie’s secret,—for a secret Mary felt there must be. As for Ben, that was different. She felt that the secret in his case was somehow her own.
‘Old Sargent ought to be looked after, really,’ said Frank. ‘It is all very well to have a gardener who is a character; but those flower-beds are disgraceful, Mary. You should see the garden at Richmont. I suppose my mother does not mind; but, at least, you might look after it. I shall give the old beggar a piece of my mind if he comes across me to-day.’
‘Are the gardens really so wonderful at Richmont?’ said Mary; ‘altogether it must be an extraordinary place. I have met Miss Rich once, and I thought her pretty; of course, I should like to know her, if—— But, Frank, you might tell me—— If that is really what you are thinking of——’
‘If what is really what I am thinking of?’ said Frank, with a laugh. Mary had laid her hand on his shoulder, and was looking at him anxiously. His face had changed once more,—the gleam under the eyelash, the softened droop66 of the lid, had disappeared: but the colour rose again to his face, though with a difference. ‘Don’t inquire too much,’ he said, turning away from her. ‘I can’t tell you myself. No{v.2-252} one can say what may happen. Don’t ask me any more questions, there’s a dear.’
‘But Frank, only one thing;—is she really so very nice?’ said Mary, with another effort to catch his eye.
‘Oh, yes; she’s very nice?’ answered Frank, with a little impatience67 in his tone.
‘And if,—that were to happen—you would not require to go to India?’ said Mary, dropping her voice.
‘No.’
‘And,—only one word;—are you really, really fond of her, Frank?’
The young soldier shook her hand off his shoulder, and turned away with an impatient exclamation14. ‘Good heavens! what an inquisitor you are! Can’t you let a fellow alone? As if a man can go and make a talk about everything like a set of girls!’ he cried, and stepped out of the open window on to the lawn, where old Sargent was visible in the distance. Frank went straight to the old gardener, and began to give him that piece of his mind he had promised, using considerable action, and pointing indignantly to the flower-beds, while Mary stood and watched, feeling that old Sargent was suffering the penalty of her own curiosity. Her cousins had always been as brothers to Mary,—at least the two younger ones had been brothers; and it vexed68 her beyond description to find how they had both glided{v.2-253} out of her knowledge upon their different paths. She was a good girl, and very sensible, everybody allowed; but still she was young, not in reality any older than Frank, and the first idea of love was sacred to her mind. The almost admission he had made struck her dumb. To think of a girl,—in that way,—and yet not be fond of her! Mary shrank from the idea as if she had received a blow. Of course, she had heard of marrying money, as everybody else has, and, like everybody else, had seen people who were said to have married money, and got on together as well as the rest of the world. It was a thing acknowledged in the society she was acquainted with to be a duty incumbent69 upon some people, and creditable to all. But yet,—one of the boys! Instinct carried the day over principle as inculcated everywhere around her. “With other people it might be well enough,—but one of us! Mary stood in great consternation, looking on while Frank delivered his lecture to the gardener. She wanted to say something more to him, and did not know how. Had not he better, far better, go to India, after all? It would be sad to have none of the boys at home, but not so sad as this. And then Mary cast a half-angry, half-pitying thought at Nelly Rich, poor wealthy girl, the ‘money’ whom Frank was trying to bring himself to marry. She was angry, like a woman, at this creature for so much as existing, and yet,—‘Oh!’ said Mary to herself, ‘what a fate for a{v.2-254} girl,—to be married as money! And how frightful70, for Frank! and how base of him! and yet, oh, what a fate! poor, poor fellow!’ This is how her thoughts went on as she stood gazing after him, with consternation, and sympathy, and horror, and indignation. Everybody would say it was quite right; even Mrs. Renton would go and call, for this reason, though for no other, and smile upon them for their wealth. Mary grew sick as she thought of it. Ben was infatuated, and blind, and foolish. He was going to be miserable71 in a different way, for the creature he loved was not good enough for him. But it was not so bad as this.
In the meantime Frank was very bitter upon old Sargent about those flower-beds. He upbraided72 the gardener with taking advantage of his mother’s illness and her indifference73 to external things. He was so solemn about such a breach74 of trust that the old man was struck dumb, and had not a word to say for himself. It was a satisfaction to the mind of the young master, who had been stung by Mary’s injudicious question, more than he could have avowed75. Frank had to take a long walk, and do an immense deal of thinking, before he could bring himself back to his former easy sense of duty. Fond of her! Of course, if he married her he should grow fond of Nelly. He liked her very well now, or he never would think of it. Girls were such foolish creatures, and could not understand all the breadth of a ma{v.2-255}n’s motives76. A pretty thing the world would be if it were built only upon what they called love. Love! It was very well in its way, but society wanted a firmer, more practical basis; but yet, notwithstanding all these reasonings, Frank was more shaken than he had yet been by the surprise and the pain that had come into Mary Westbury’s face.
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affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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deluding
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的现在分词 ) | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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edified
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| v.开导，启发( edify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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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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longing
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exertion
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palls
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| n.柩衣( pall的名词复数 )；墓衣；棺罩；深色或厚重的覆盖物v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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followers
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eligible
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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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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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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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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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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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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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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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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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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curtness
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| n.简短；草率；简略 | |
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obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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