“So I shall not see my dear son to-night,” said the elder woman, as she presented a frosty cheek for Claudia to kiss. “It is a disappointment.” She looked with sideways disapproval4 at Claudia’s toilette. “As showy as her mother,” was her mental comment.
“You knew he was expected? He telephoned me at the last minute that he was detained at his chambers5.”
Lady Currey’s eyebrows6 were of the fixture7 kind that cannot really be raised, only crumpled8. She crumpled them now.
“Ah! I remember when I was young no woman thought of going out without her husband. If John did not care to go to a function I stayed away. When he[115] had that fall from his horse I never took a meal outside the house for five months.”
Claudia would have explained to anyone else that her hostess had insisted on her presence, and thus have soothed9 down old-fashioned prejudices, but Lady Currey’s tone annoyed her.
“Oh!” she said carelessly, “women are neither treated as children nor inmates10 of a harem nowadays. We have progressed, you know. Women are freeing themselves. Did you never revolt in your heart of hearts?”
“My pleasure was always to do as my husband wished.”
“What is that about me?” said Sir John, coming up to them. “How do you do, Claudia. I am sorry Gilbert is not able to come. But it shows the right spirit. I inculcated that into him when he was a boy.”
He looked at Claudia fixedly12 under his heavy, bushy eyebrows. They always annoyed Claudia, who longed to tell him to brush them. She knew the meaning of that look. It was to remind her that she had so far failed to provide him with a grandson.
“Then the responsibility rests with you,” said Claudia quietly.
“What do you mean? What responsibility? We are proud of him.”
“‘All work and no play——’” Claudia began to quote, when he interrupted her.
“Pooh! that was invented by some lazy rogue13, I bet. Work never yet hurt any man. It’s play—late hours, too rich food and too much drink—that plays old Harry14 with the constitution. I impressed that on him early in life. Marian, don’t fidget with your fan”—she carried an old-fashioned fan of black ostrich15 feathers—“it worries me. The husband to work and the wife to look after the house and the children, that is the proper division. You leave Gilbert alone, and don’t worry him to come to silly dinner-parties. I’m getting on in years, and[116] it doesn’t matter about me. He’s carrying the name to the country. The youngest K.C.—it’ s a thing to be proud of in a husband, Claudia.” He fixed11 his rather prominent cold grey eyes on her as she lightly shrugged16 her shoulders.
But her hostess fluttered up to her rescue. Mrs. Rivington never walked like other people, she always floated or fluttered.
“Mrs. Currey, may I present to you Mr. Littleton, who will take you in to dinner. It was too bad of your husband to desert us. But he is impervious17 to the charms of women, isn’t he?”
“Obviously not,” said the tall, almost gaunt, fair-haired man who bowed before her. Claudia knew by the accent that he was an American. “Your husband is the new K.C., is he not? King’s Counsel—it has a dignified18 but archaic19 sound to our ears.”
“Don’t,” cried Mrs. Rivington shrilly20, gauging21 in ten seconds the probable cost of Claudia’s dress. “I’m an Imperialist, and I wave flags and put up bunting and do all sorts of loyal things, and the red on a union Jack22 doesn’t agree with my complexion23, so I really am quite genuine and what-you-may-call-it. Don’t run down the King to me.” She fluttered off, her eyes roving restlessly over the couples she was pairing.
Left together, Claudia and the American smiled. He was the type of American that suggests the mettlesome24 racehorse, lean-flanked, long-limbed, not a spare ounce of flesh on his bones, relying on training and determination to carry him through the race. He was unusually fair, with a suggestion that he might have had a Viking ancestor, yet there was nothing colourless about him. Claudia wondered what he might be, millionaire, financier, hoping to become one, railroad magnate, what? She was sure he was a worker, it was written in every line of him.
“I am certain women like our hostess are really and[117] truly the props25 of your empire,” he said gravely. “The sacrifice of a complexion, what can compare with it? Sons, lands, money—what can touch it?”
They both laughed as they moved in to dinner. As Claudia had predicted, Mrs. Rivington was spreading herself over Frank Hamilton. Littleton caught the exchange of glances between him and his partner, and made a mental note. He was by way of studying Englishwomen.
“Are you here for long?” asked Claudia, unfolding her serviette.
“Maybe I’ll be here for six months or so. I know you are wondering what is my particular branch of money-making. I’m a publisher—Littleton, Robins26 and Co., and we’re starting a branch over here as an experiment. I want to stay for a bit and direct it.”
Her interest was aroused. Everything to do with books had a fascination27 for her ever since Colin Paton had taught her to love them. And to her a publisher was not a merchant, a mere28 purveyor29 of books to the public, but something dedicated30 to the service of art. The glamour31 of the books was around the man who produced them. She knew of his firm as one that specialized32 in art books and good belles33 lettres. She had several books with his imprint34 on her shelves. So the talk flowed on smoothly35 after this happy opening, neither having to consider what they should say next to while away the dinner-hour. Claudia found herself more interested than she had been for a long time at a dinner-table. He had not the delicate illuminating36 touch of Colin Paton, he lacked the subtleties37 of his imagination and sound classical scholarship, but he knew all the books of the day and was appreciative38 of the good in them.
Towards the end of dinner he looked at her with a whimsical twinkle in his blue eyes and said, “I wonder if you will be amused or annoyed if I tell you something. I am not sure how an Englishwoman takes such things.[118] Personally I think the photograph of a beautiful woman should be public property, but I realize she may not.”
Claudia turned a wondering face upon him.
“Your photograph, in the shape of a coloured book-cover, has gone into every part of the United States, although”—with an appraisingly39 admiring glance—“the artist did not get your colouring correctly. He made your hair dead black and your skin and colouring too pink and commonplace.”
“But how——”
“It was like this. We were publishing a new book of Henry Roxton Vanderling’s—you know him—and we wanted an attractive paper cover with a portrait of the heroine. I remember it was a very hot day when we were discussing the matter, and I told the artist I wanted something specially40 taking. I generally have the English illustrated41 papers sent out to me, and he was listlessly turning over the pages, when he struck your photograph. With a cry of ‘Here it is—bully!’ he nabbed it. A few days later he brought me a coloured sketch42 suggested by your portrait. I have the original sketch framed in my office. Are you offended?”
Claudia laughed. It struck her as being humorous and something unusual in the way of introductions. And she was pleasantly aware, as any woman would be, of the compliment conveyed.
“I knew you the minute you came into the room, although I had forgotten your name. When you came in I said to myself, ‘Vanderling’s “Woman of the East!”’ I felt somehow we were already acquainted.”
“Sure. I’ll send you one to-morrow. I’m delighted you are amused, not angry. I took a big chance in telling you, but I had to.”
“You thought I’d find out and you’d better put the thing nicely, with the varnished44 side uppermost?”
[119]
He gave a hearty45 laugh. “Well, you’ve guessed most of the truth. Mrs. Rivington spotted46 the resemblance, and as I come from the same country as George Washington, I didn’t tell a lie.”
“No, it’s no good telling a lie when it is sure to be found out. Only a good lie justifies47 the liar48.”
Mrs. Rivington was collecting eyes by this time, and Claudia rose. In the drawing-room, an apartment so crowded with furniture and bric-à-brac of various periods that it suggested a well-dusted shop in Wardour Street, her hostess seized on her.
“I was glad to see you getting on so well with Mr. Littleton. He wanted to meet you. He told you about the ‘Woman of the East’? Quite romantic, I think. He ought to fall in love with you.”
“To serve as an advertisement is hardly romantic, surely? I rank with the monkey advertising49 soap and a starved cat extolling50 a certain milk.”
“Oh! how funny you are—and so cold and critical! Now I should be thrilled. But you’re not a bit romantic, anyone can see that. Oh! Claudia, is it true about your brother?”
“My brother? What is it?” She wished Mrs. Rivington’s eyes would not wander so restlessly over her person.
“Why don’t you know? They say he has married ‘The Girlie Girl!’”
“Who on earth is ‘The Girlie Girl’?” laughed Claudia, sipping51 her liqueur. “It sounds like a cross between a barrel organ and a seaside pier52.”
“Yes, doesn’t it? But don’t you know her—haven’t you seen her picture on the hoardings? She was playing at the Pavilion last week. I don’t like her style myself, but I suppose most men would think her pretty. Not, of course, that you can tell. Paint goes such a long way, doesn’t it?”
[120]
“Are you sure it’s a rumour?” said her hostess, with a gleam of malice54. “These girls are always entrapping55 rich young men, and I heard as a positive fact that the wedding took place at the registrar’s three weeks ago.”
“Nonsense. Jack amuses himself, but he wouldn’t do a thing like that. He’s an awful fool, but not such a fool as that.”
“Well,” replied Mrs. Rivington, dabbing56 at her nose with a powder-puff; “I hope it’s not true, for your sake. Fancy having a sister who calls herself ‘The Girlie Girl’! Too awful to contemplate57, isn’t it? Thank goodness, I haven’t any children. I shouldn’t survive such a thing. I don’t believe in marrying out of your own class.” As the General had obviously married beneath him—it was rumoured58 that she had been employed as reception-clerk at an hotel—her scruples59 were understandable. “She figures on the hoardings in a sort of vivandière costume, and the men seem to admire her no end. But men always do admire such creatures. But really, Claudia, I am afraid it is true. My sewing-maid knows one of her maids, and this girl told Bertha in confidence that she went to the registrar’s with them, only nobody is to know at present. She heard all about the wedding-breakfast and the gallons of champagne60 and the flowers. These people live on champagne, I believe.”
Claudia, though a little startled, hardly credited the story. At one time she had been afraid that Jack would make some horrible mésalliance, but as the years had gone on and he had left the impressionable, callow stage behind him, she had ceased to feel any alarm. Jack was an ass1, but he was a conventional ass. Once she hinted her fears to him, but he had taken the suggestion as such a deadly insult that she believed he realized the foolishness of such things. She remembered that he had proudly informed her that in the circle of “little ladies” he was nicknamed “The Knowing Kard,” and he gave her to understand that the nickname was not undeserved. Every[121] now and then the family asked him when he was going to settle down and espouse61 some well-born, inexperienced girl, but Jack invariably said airily that there was lots of time, and that a really nice wife would hamper62 a fellow horribly, and a third party was always such a nuisance. It was exceedingly unlikely that there was any foundation for Mrs. Rivington’s piece of gossip. Claudia dismissed the idea with a laugh.
“Jack has a large heart, if somewhat shallow,” she said lightly. “I don’t think I’ll worry about his wedding-present.”
“Strange fascination these creatures have for men,” commented her hostess, glancing round to see that the other women were occupied. “Never can understand it myself. How a man can fall in love with powder—several inches thick—and grease paint beats me. But men are so easily taken in, aren’t they? and of course we should be too proud to use their arts.”
Claudia’s attention was wandering and her eyes were caught by a woman of about thirty-five, rather badly dressed, who did not seem to belong to the same galère as the other women. She was sitting apart, looking shy and a little uncomfortable. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Claudia wondered who she could be. She had fine, expressive63 eyes and a sensitive mouth, and she could have been much better-looking had she been more fashionably dressed. Mrs. Rivington noticed the direction of her eyes.
“I do wish Mrs. Milton would look smarter,” she said rather irritably64. “I hate réchaufféd dresses, don’t you? But she’s got a beautiful voice, and I thought she would amuse us after dinner. She and her husband are as poor as church mice. She can’t get any engagements. Partly her dowdy65 dresses, I should think.”
“Do you mean you have engaged her for the evening?” asked Claudia.
“Heavens, no! I give her a dinner in return for some[122] music. She wants to get known. It’s really doing her a kindness. I must go and talk to your mother-in-law now. She hates me, but I can see everyone else is tired of her. Where are you going?”
“I am going to talk to Mrs. Milton.” Claudia could not stand the sight of the solitary66 figure any longer, and she longed to tell her hostess what she thought of the practice of getting artistes to give their services for nothing. Colin Paton had opened her eyes to the injustice67. She was filled with shame for the set which she represented, and she gave Mrs. Milton her most cordial smile—it could be very charming—as she sat down beside her.
“Mrs. Rivington tells me that you sing beautifully,” she said. “I am looking forward to hearing you. One so seldom hears music nowadays after dinner. It is usually that tiresome68 bridge.”
The woman flushed with pleasure; she had a fine skin that coloured easily. They were the first friendly words that had been addressed to her that evening, for she had been taken in to dinner by a deaf old major.
“How nice of you,” she said involuntarily. She had been admiring Claudia all the evening. “I do hope I am in good voice, but my little boy has an attack of bronchitis and I was up with him most of the night. And when you are a little tired——”
Claudia nodded sympathetically. “I know. It takes all the fullness and timbre69 out of the voice, doesn’t it? Must you nurse your little boy yourself?” She noticed that the singer’s voice was infinitely70 more refined than that of her hostess, which had an unmistakable Cockney twang.
“Yes, we can’t afford a nurse,” said Mrs. Milton simply. “You see, my husband lost all his money two years ago. That’s why I come out to sing. When we were married I gave it up to please him, but now I want to help keep the house going.” The kind and real interest in Claudia’s eyes warmed her to unwonted loquacity71.
“And you have a little boy?”
[123]
“I have three children, two boys and a girl. They are such darlings.” Her eyes lit up and the whole face was transformed to something almost beautiful in its brooding motherliness. “The boys are just like my husband, so plucky72 and good-tempered. Oh! they are worth fighting for. We say that every night when we tip-toe into their room and see they are all right for the night. Children make all the difference, don’t they?”
“I—I suppose they do.” Claudia could visualize73 the picture of the man and woman, tired and anxious, looking with love and hope at their sleeping children and feeling that they made all the difference. She looked across at the chattering74 groups scattered75 about the room, most of the women, like her hostess, childless or having only one child. Scraps76 of their conversation punctuated77 Mrs. Milton’s words. “I assure you, Kitty, she lost eighty pounds in two rubbers, and everyone knows she can’t afford it. Who pays her debts? I should like to know, and....” “Her bill, my dear, was outrageous78. She charged me twenty-two guineas for that little muslin frock, and then....” “—entirely79 new method of treating the complexion. No creams, only massage80 with....”
“You have none yet?” said Mrs. Milton gently.
“No ... but a husband counts also, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes! Rob is the best husband in the world. Perhaps I love the boys so much because they are like him. He hates my having to sing again. You know how a man feels when his wife has to work, and he hoped to give me an easy time. But he’s working in the City all day, and I’d like to do something too. Oh, yes! Rob is splendid. I should think he did count.” A woman’s voice broke in shrilly: “I simply adore my dogs. Wouldn’t be parted from them. Don’t enjoy my meals unless they are with me and....”
Claudia and Mrs. Milton looked at one another, and the mother-woman smiled. “Isn’t it a pity?” she said.
“Tell me where you live,” responded Claudia. “I shall[124] want someone to sing at a little dinner I am giving soon. I will not encourage these dull bridge evenings. Will you sing for me?... Ah! here come the men.”
Frank Hamilton came straight across to her and commenced to talk, apparently81 not noticing her companion, who drew a little away, as though feeling she was not wanted any longer. But Claudia interrupted Hamilton’s rather ardent82 words and said, “Mrs. Milton, was Mr. Hamilton introduced to you?” He was forced to turn a little, and Claudia noticed that Mrs. Milton bowed with a little embarrassment83.
“I think Mr. Hamilton has forgotten me,” she replied quietly. “We were acquainted in our youth.”
“Were you?” Claudia looked at him in surprise, for she had been watching him all the evening out of the corner of her eyes, while apparently oblivious84 of his existence—a womanish trick—and she had not seen him speak to her. When Hamilton spoke85 it was rather stiffly.
“I did not see you before, Mrs. Milton.” It was a stupid fib, and Claudia noted86 it. “How do you do? Yes, in our salad days we used to warble duets together, didn’t we?” The geniality87 of the last words was rather forced. Claudia divined that he did not want those days recalled. The obvious reason momentarily occurred to her, but a glance at Mrs. Milton dissipated it. Also, she was several years older than Hamilton. Hamilton had once confessed that he could never fall in love with a plain woman, and Margaret Milton would never be beautiful except to the man who loved her.
“I had hoped I should sit next to you,” he said in an undertone. Mrs. Milton had moved away to the piano. “It was too bad, and I couldn’t even see you properly because of that beastly erection in the middle.”
“Oh! you were quite happy. You seemed to get on quite well with your hostess. Who was that dark-complexioned lady next to you, with some truly wonderful diamonds?”
[125]
“Mrs. Jacobs, the wife of a South African millionaire. She told me that herself and that she was a widow!”
“Ha! ha! Do we want to sit for a dusky portrait?”
“Don’t....” He tried to look very hurt, but it was not so successful as earlier in the evening. The dinner had been quite good and the champagne better. Hamilton’s eyes were a little too bright to look very grieved.
“Did she not give you a commission?”
“Well, what if she did? Why do you always sneer88 at me. And it’s your portrait I want to paint. What do I care for her commission, even if it is a lucrative89 one. Parchment and diamonds—ugh! Tell me, when will you come again to the studio?”
“Hush, Mrs. Milton is going to sing. You must remain absolutely quiet.”
The first notes of Brahms’ “Sapphische Ode” throbbed90 through the inharmonious room. Margaret Milton had the deep, pure contralto that makes the listener think of all things tender and true and intimate, the things that no man or woman says, even to his twin soul, but sometimes in the watches of the night whispers to the shadows. And the shadows enfold them and carry them away into the Hinterland beyond the setting of the sun, with the poignant92 tears and the imperishable kisses, the pain and the joy and the passion of mortals.
The timbre of the voice was singularly sympathetic and emotional, and Claudia instantly fell under its enchantment93. Somehow she felt that the woman was singing to her, guiding her, pleading with her. She sang several times, and then, after “Still wie die Nacht” by Claudia’s request, she began to sing a song that always made Claudia’s heart throb91 and ache intolerably. Her throat swelled94 and burned on this night, and the tears waited on her eyelids95. She forgot the indifferent, politely bored company, as she listened to the exquisite96 strains of that wonderful love-song, “Ich liebe dich.”
And this plain, dowdy woman knew the real meaning[126] of that song. Only a woman who knew the joy and the pain of love could have sung it as she sang it. The cry of love rang through the room like a clear clarion97 call. Even the people who had wanted to play bridge felt it and looked vaguely98 uncomfortable. For a moment they were lured99 from their money-bags. The call was so clear that it penetrated100 the cotton-wool of everyday life.
Claudia found herself looking at the shabby woman at the piano with fierce envy. Once, she, Claudia, had thought she knew, once her heart had triumphantly101 chanted “Ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich,” like an eternal refrain. Once? Was it all quite over? Something stirred within her, something touched her cold heart like the rosy102 finger of hope. Once! Perhaps she and Gilbert had only drifted apart, perhaps she had not made due allowances for the inarticulate, more prosaic103, unemotional nature of man. She had loved him very much—she did love him still, if only——
There was a bowl of red roses at her elbow. She did not notice them, but perhaps it was their perfume that mounted to her brain and brought back the remembrance just then of the garden at Wargrave, when she had questioned Gilbert and asked him if he had really loved her.... He had promised she should always come first ... she was right to demand that ... he had said that he was not good at pretty speeches and that she must take some things for granted ... that men were different from women.... Her blood tingled104 in her veins105 as she felt in imagination again the fierce pressure of his arms around her, his kisses on her lips. Surely he had really loved her then, she reiterated106 to herself. She knew more now than she did then. She had been initiated107 into the mysteries of life and death. She had begun to realize how large a part mere animal passion plays in a man’s life, how men take love (so called) where they find it, how “the worldly hopes men set their hearts upon” cheat women of their just dues, and leave them bankrupt. But[127] with the passionate108 echo of “Ich liebe dich” in her ears, she felt she could not write that horrible word “finis” to this page of her life. Perhaps she had been too exigeante, impatient; perhaps she could be more tactful now. Eighteen months! Why, it must be that she had not had time to master the game of love. Their tastes were so different, perhaps that was partly the trouble. She remembered how he had talked her out of going to the enchanted109 Palace at Como and substituted a golfing honeymoon110 in Scotland. But he had been very charming to her—humoring all her fancies, his own having been satisfied—he had made her feel that she had only to command and he would always obey love’s call. It had been an intoxication111. Was it all behind her? Was love behind her for the rest of her life? No, she could not do without love. She had always wanted it, she had tasted its sweets, no, no, no! Gilbert must love her again as he used to. He could not have entirely changed in eighteen months. He was at home probably. Perhaps he was thinking of her, wanting her to come in——
She rose abruptly113 to her feet, filled with an uncontrollable blind desire for action, to pursue this elusive114 thing which seemed to have escaped from her hands.
But Hamilton’s eyes fixed on her in surprise at her abrupt112 rising, drew her back to earth and the faded Aubusson carpet on which she stood. He, too, had been moved by the music. His artistic115 pulses, so easily set beating, had responded to the call also. But his thoughts had been of the rather capricious woman by his side, the woman who so far had never listened to his words of love.
After his first surprise at her action, he came to the flattering conclusion that the music had warmed her heart towards him. An easy favourite with women, he did not doubt that she cared for him. He had always gained what he wanted, though he had never before aimed at such big game as Claudia Currey. But he was rapidly[128] becoming famous, he was sought after and flattered. Women begged him to paint them on his own terms. He was not what he had been. Mrs. Milton knew what he had been. Perhaps the game was not so difficult as he had begun to fear. He looked at her meaningly, with a rising sense of power, but she did not return his glance. That might be shyness.
He heard her make her adieux to their hostess, who protested at her going so early.
“It is only eleven o’clock.... I suppose you are going on somewhere else, you and”—markedly—“Mr. Hamilton.”
But her mother-in-law came to her rescue. “Claudia is quite right. I daresay Gilbert wants her. I know John is always fidgety when I am away from him.”
Claudia did not laugh as she would have done half an hour previously116. Perhaps Gilbert was wanting her. She wanted him to want her.
“Mr. Hamilton, you need not see me home. I can——”
“Of course I am coming. Good-bye, Mrs. Rivington, it has been a delightful117 evening. Yes, I won’t forget about the portrait, Mrs. Jacobs.”
He followed Claudia out into the hall, followed by Mrs. Milton with her roll of music.
“Don’t you know I should come?” he whispered, not noticing her.
The maid helped Claudia on with her cloak. Mrs. Milton was tucking herself—the maid, with the strange knowledge of the servants’ hall, did not trouble to help her—into a businesslike garment, long and warm. Claudia heard her make some inquiry118 of one of the maids, and caught the words “last ’bus.”
Frank came up to her at that moment, the dawning light of possession in his eyes, a subtle change in his manner.
“Are you ready, madam?” He smiled to himself as he foresaw the long drive in the darkness, side by side in[129] the pleasant intimate warmth of the motor ... her hand would fall naturally into his and then....
“Mrs. Milton, can I not give you a lift in the motor?” Her clear voice cut short his dreams. “Where do you live? Maida Vale. Oh! we can go that way quite easily. Yes, I should like to take you home quickly to the bronchitisy child.”
Only one of the maids, who giggled119 over it and mimicked120 him directly the hall-door was shut, saw the sudden scowl121 on Hamilton’s brow, for Claudia was bent122 on saving the tired woman an uncomfortable cold journey in the ’bus and Mrs. Milton was full of gratitude123 at the unexpected thoughtfulness.
“My! wasn’t that a sell for him,” said the pert parlour-maid. “Thought he’d have a nice, cosy124 time with her all alone. But she wasn’t taking any. Always does a man good to take him down a peg125 or two!”
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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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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inmates
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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fixedly
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rogue
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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ostrich
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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impervious
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dignified
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archaic
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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gauging
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| n.测量[试]，测定，计量v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的现在分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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22
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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23
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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24
mettlesome
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| adj.（通常指马等）精力充沛的，勇猛的 | |
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25
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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26
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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27
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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28
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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29
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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30
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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31
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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32
specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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33
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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34
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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35
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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36
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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37
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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38
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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39
appraisingly
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| adv.以品评或评价的眼光 | |
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40
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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41
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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42
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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43
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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44
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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45
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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46
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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47
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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48
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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49
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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50
extolling
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| v.赞美( extoll的现在分词 )；赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的现在分词 ) | |
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51
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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52
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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53
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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54
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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55
entrapping
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的现在分词 ) | |
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56
dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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57
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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58
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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59
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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60
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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61
espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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62
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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63
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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64
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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65
dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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66
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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67
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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68
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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69
timbre
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| n.音色，音质 | |
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70
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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71
loquacity
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| n.多话，饶舌 | |
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72
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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73
visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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74
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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75
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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76
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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77
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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78
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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79
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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80
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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81
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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82
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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83
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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84
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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85
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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86
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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87
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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88
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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89
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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90
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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91
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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92
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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93
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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94
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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95
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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96
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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97
clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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98
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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99
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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100
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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101
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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102
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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103
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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104
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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106
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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108
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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109
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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111
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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112
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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113
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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114
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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115
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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116
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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117
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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118
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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119
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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121
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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122
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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123
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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124
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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125
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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