But Mr. Stockton had a house, a wife, and four children in New Utrecht, that very ingenious suburb of Brooklyn. He had worked the problem out to a nicety long ago. If he did not bring home, on the average, eighty dollars a week, his household would cease to revolve4. It simply had to be done. The house was still being paid for on the installment5 plan. There were plumbers7' bills, servant's wages, clothes and schooling8 for the children, clothes for the wife, two suits a year for himself, and the dues of the Sheepshead Golf Club—his only extravagance. A simple middle-class routine, but one that, once embarked9 upon, turns into a treadmill10. As I say, eighty dollars a week would just cover expenses. To accumulate any savings11, pay for life insurance, and entertain friends, Stockton had to rise above that minimum. If in any week he fell below that figure he could not lie abed at night and "snort his fill," as the Elizabethan song na?vely puts it.
There you have the groundwork of many a domestic drama.
Mr. Stockton worked pretty hard at the newspaper office to earn his fifty dollars. He skimmed faithfully all the books that came in, wrote painstaking12 reviews, and took care to run cuts on his literary page on Saturdays "to give the stuff kick," as the proprietor13 ordered. Though he did so with reluctance14, he was forced now and then to approach the book publishers on the subject of advertising. He gave earnest and honest thought to his literary department, and was once praised by Mr. Howells in Harper's Magazine for the honourable15 quality of his criticisms.
But Mr. Stockton, like most men, had only a certain fund of energy and enthusiasm at his disposal. His work on the paper used up the first fruits of his zeal16 and strength. After that came his article on current poetry, written (unsigned) for a leading imitation literary weekly. The preparation of this involved a careful perusal17 of at least fifty journals, both American and foreign, and I blush to say it brought him only fifteen dollars a week. He wrote a weekly "New York Letter" for a Chicago paper of bookish tendencies, in which he told with a flavour of intimacy19 the goings on of literary men in Manhattan whom he never had time or opportunity to meet. This article was paid for at space rates, which are less in Chicago than in New York. On this count he averaged about six dollars a week.
That brings us up to seventy-one dollars, and also pretty close to the limit of our friend's endurance. The additional ten dollars or so needed for the stability of the Stockton exchequer21 he earned in various ways. Neighbours in New Utrecht would hear his weary typewriter clacking far into the night. He wrote short stories, of only fair merit; and he wrote "Sunday stories," which is the lowest depth to which a self-respecting lover of literature can fall. Once in a while he gave a lecture on poetry, but he was a shy man, and he never was asked to lecture twice in the same place. By almost incredible exertions22 of courage and obstinacy23 he wrote a novel, which was published, and sold 2,580 copies the first year. His royalties24 on this amounted to $348.30—not one-third as much, he reflected sadly, as Irvin Cobb would receive for a single short story. He even did a little private tutoring at his home, giving the sons of some of his friends lessons in English literature.
It is to be seen that Mr. Stockton's relatives, back in Indiana, were wrong when they wrote to him admiringly—as they did twice a year—asking for loans, and praising the bold and debonair25 life of a man of letters in the great city. They did not know that for ten years Mr. Stockton had refused the offers of his friends to put him up for membership at the literary club to which his fancy turned so fondly and so often. He could not afford it. When friends from out of town called on him, he took them to Peck's for a French table d'h?te, with an apologetic murmur26.
But it is not to be thought that Mr. Stockton was unhappy or discontented. Those who have experienced the excitements of the existence where one lives from hand to mouth and back to hand again, with rarely more than fifty cents of loose change in pocket, know that there is even a kind of pleasurable exhilaration in it. The characters in George Gissing's Grub Street stories would have thought Stockton rich indeed with his fifty-dollar salary. But he was one of those estimable men who have sense enough to give all their money to their wives and keep none in their trousers. And though his life was arduous27 and perhaps dull to outward view, he was a passionate28 lover of books, and in his little box at the back of the newspaper office, smoking a corncob and thumping29 out his reviews, he was one of the happiest men in New York. His thirst for books was a positive bulimia; how joyful30 he was when he found time to do a little work on his growing sheaf of literary essays, which he intended to call "Casual Ablutions," after the famous sign in the British Museum washroom.
It was Mr. Stockton's custom to take a trolley31 as far as the Brooklyn bridge, and thence it was a pleasant walk to the office on Park Row. Generally he left home about ten o'clock, thus avoiding the rush of traffic in the earlier hours; and loitering a little along the way, as becomes a man of ideas, his article on poetry would jell in his mind, and he would be at his desk a little after eleven. There he would work until one o'clock with the happy concentration of those who enjoy their tasks. At that time he would go out for a bite of lunch, and would then be at his desk steadily32 from two until six. Dinner at home was at seven, and after that he worked persistently33 in his little den18 under the roof until past midnight.
One morning in spring he left New Utrecht in a mood of perplexity, for to-day his even routine was in danger of interruption. Halfway34 across the bridge Stockton paused in some confusion of spirit to look down on the shining river and consider his course.
A year or so before this time, in gathering35 copy for his poetry articles, he had first come across the name of Finsbury Verne in an English journal at the head of some exquisite36 verses. From time to time he found more of this writer's lyrics37 in the English magazines, and at length he had ventured a graceful38 article of appreciation39. It happened that he was the first in this country to recognize Verne's talent, and to his great delight he had one day received a very charming letter from the poet himself, thanking him for his understanding criticism.
Stockton, though a shy and reticent40 man, had the friendliest nature in the world, and some underlying41 spirit of kinship in Verne's letter prompted him to warm response. Thus began a correspondence which was a remarkable42 pleasure to the lonely reviewer, who knew no literary men, although his life was passed among books. Hardly dreaming that they would ever meet, he had insisted on a promise that if Verne should ever visit the States he would make New Utrecht his headquarters. And now, on this very morning, there had come a wireless43 message via Seagate, saying that Verne was on a ship which would dock that afternoon.
The dilemma44 may seem a trifling45 one, but to Stockton's sensitive nature it was gross indeed. He and his wife knew that they could offer but little to make the poet's visit charming. New Utrecht, on the way to Coney Island, is not a likely perching ground for poets; the house was small, shabby, and the spare room had long ago been made into a workshop for the two boys, where they built steam engines and pasted rotogravure pictures from the Sunday editions on the walls. The servant was an enormous coloured mammy, with a heart of ruddy gold, but in appearance she was pure Dahomey. The bathroom plumbing46 was out of order, the drawing-room rug was fifteen years old, even the little lawn in front of the house needed trimming, and the gardener would not be round for several days. And Verne had given them only a few hours' notice. How like a poet!
In his letters Stockton had innocently boasted of the pleasant time they would have when the writer should come to visit. He had spoken of evenings beside the fire when they would talk for hours of the things that interest literary men. What would Verne think when he found the hearth47 only a gas log, and one that had a peculiarly offensive odour? This sickly sweetish smell had become in years of intimacy very dear to Stockton, but he could hardly expect a poet who lived in Well Walk, Hampstead (O Shades of Keats!), and wrote letters from a London literary club, to understand that sort of thing. Why, the man was a grandson of Jules Verne, and probably had been accustomed to refined surroundings all his life. And now he was doomed49 to plumb6 the sub-fuse depths of New Utrecht!
Stockton could not even put him up at a club, as he belonged to none but the golf club, which had no quarters for the entertainment of out-of-town guests. Every detail of his home life was of the shabby, makeshift sort which is so dear to one's self but needs so much explaining to outsiders. He even thought with a pang50 of Lorna Doone, the fat, plebeian51 little mongrel terrier which had meals with the family and slept with the children at night. Verne was probably used to staghounds or Zeppelin hounds or something of the sort, he thought humorously. English poets wear an iris52 halo in the eyes of humble53 American reviewers. Those godlike creatures have walked on Fleet Street, have bought books on Paternoster Row, have drunk half-and-half and eaten pigeon pie at the Salutation and Cat, and have probably roared with laughter over some alehouse jest of Mr. Chesterton.
Stockton remembered the photograph Verne had sent him, showing a lean, bearded face with wistful dark eyes against a background of old folios. What would that Olympian creature think of the drudge54 of New Utrecht, a mere55 reviewer who sold his editorial copies to pay for shag tobacco!
Well, thought Stockton, as he crossed the bridge, rejoicing not at all in the splendid towers of Manhattan, candescent in the April sun, they had done all they could. He had left his wife telephoning frantically56 to grocers, cleaning women, and florists57. He himself had stopped at the poultry58 market on his way to the trolley to order two plump fowls59 for dinner, and had pinched them with his nervous, ink-stained fingers, as ordered by Mrs. Stockton, to test their tenderness. They would send the three younger children to their grandmother, to be interned60 there until the storm had blown over; and Mrs. Stockton was going to do what she could to take down the rotogravure pictures from the walls of what the boys fondly called the Stockton Art Gallery. He knew that Verne had children of his own: perhaps he would be amused rather than dismayed by the incongruities61 of their dismantled62 guestroom. Presumably, the poet was aver3 here for a lecture tour—he would be entertained and fêted everywhere by the cultured rich, for the appreciation which Stockton had started by his modest little essay had grown to the dimension of a fad63.
He looked again at the telegram which had shattered the simple routine of his unassuming life. "On board Celtic dock this afternoon three o'clock hope see you. Verne." He sneezed sharply, as was his unconscious habit when nervous. In desperation he stopped at a veterinary's office on Frankfort Street, and left orders to have the doctor's assistant call for Lorna Doone and take her away, to be kept until sent for. Then he called at a wine merchant's and bought three bottles of claret of a moderate vintage. Verne had said something about claret in one of his playful letters. Unfortunately, the man's grandfather was a Frenchman, and undoubtedly64 he knew all about wines.
Stockton sneezed so loudly and so often at his desk that morning that all his associates knew something was amiss. The Sunday editor, who had planned to borrow fifty cents from him at lunch time, refrained from doing so, in a spirit of pure Christian65 brotherhood66. Even Bob Bolles, the hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-week conductor of "The Electric Chair," the paper's humorous column, came in to see what was up. Bob's "contribs" had been generous that morning, and he was in unusually good humour for a humourist.
"What's the matter, Stock," he inquired genially67, "Got a cold? Or has George Moore sent in a new novel?"
Stockton looked up sadly from the proofs he was correcting. How could he confess his paltry68 problem to this debonair creature who wore life lightly, like a flower, and played at literature as he played tennis, with swerve69 and speed? Bolles was a bachelor, the author of a successful comedy, and a member of the smart literary club which was over the reviewer's horizon, although in the great ocean of letters the humourist was no more than a surf bather. Stockton shook his head. No one but a married man and an unsuccessful author could understand his trouble.
"A touch of asthma," he fibbed shyly. "I always have it at this time of year."
"Come and have some lunch," said the other. "We'll go up to the club and have some ale. That'll put you on your feet."
"Thanks, ever so much," said Stockton, "but I can't do it to-day. Got to make up my page. I tell you what, though—"
He hesitated, and flushed a little.
"Verne is in town to-day; the English poet, you know. Grandson of old Jules Verne. I'm going to put him up at my house. I wish you'd take him around to the club for lunch some day while he's here. He ought to meet some of the men there. I've been corresponding with him for a long time, and I—I'm afraid I rather promised to take him round there, as though I were a member, you know."
"Great snakes!" cried Bolles. "Verne? the author of 'Candle Light'? And you're going to put him up? You lucky devil. Why, the man's bigger than Masefield. Take him to lunch—I should say I will; Why, I'll put him in the colyum. Both of you come round there to-morrow and we'll have an orgy. I'll order larks71' tongues and convolvulus salad. I didn't know you knew him."
"I don't—yet," said Stockton. "I'm going down to meet his steamer this afternoon."
"Well, that's great news," said the volatile72 humourist. And he ran downstairs to buy the book of which he had so often heard but had never read.
The sight of Bolles' well-cut suit of tweeds had reminded Stockton that he was still wearing the threadbare serge that had done duty for three winters, and would hardly suffice for the honours to come. Hastily he blue-pencilled his proofs, threw them into the wire basket, and hurried outdoors to seek the nearest tailor. He stopped at the bank first, to draw out fifty dollars for emergencies. Then he entered the first clothier's shop he encountered on Nassau Street.
Mr. Stockton was a nervous man, especially so in the crises when he was compelled to buy anything so important as a suit, for usually Mrs. Stockton supervised the selection. To-day his Unlucky star was in the zenith. His watch pointed73 to close on two o'clock, and he was afraid he might be late for the steamer, which docked far uptown. In his haste, and governed perhaps by some subconscious74 recollection of the humourist's attractive shaggy tweeds, he allowed himself to be fitted with an ochre-coloured suit of some fleecy checked material grotesquely75 improper76 for his unassuming figure. It was the kind of cloth and cut that one sees only in the windows of Nassau Street. Happily he was unaware77 of the enormity of his offence against society, and rapidly transferring his belongings78 to the new pockets, he paid down the purchase price and fled to the subway.
When he reached the pier79 at the foot of Fourteenth Street he saw that the steamer was still in midstream and it would be several minutes before she warped80 in to the dock. He had no pass from the steamship81 office, but on showing his newspaperman's card the official admitted him to the pier, and he took his stand at the first cabin gangway, trembling a little with nervousness, but with a pleasant feeling of excitement no less. He gazed at the others waiting for arriving travellers and wondered whether any of the peers of American letters had come to meet the poet. A stoutish82, neatly83 dressed gentleman with a gray moustache looked like Mr. Howells, and he thrilled again. It was hardly possible that he, the obscure reviewer, was the only one who had been notified of Verne's arrival. That tall, hawk-faced man whose limousine84 was purring outside must be a certain publisher he knew by sight.
What would these gentlemen say when they learned that the poet was to stay with Kenneth Stockton, in New Utrecht? He rolled up the mustard-coloured trousers one more round—they were much too long for him—and watched the great hull85 slide along the side of the pier with a peculiar48 tingling86 shudder87 that he had not felt since the day of his wedding.
He expected no difficulty in recognizing Finsbury Verne, for he was very familiar with his photograph. As the passengers poured down the slanting88 gangway, all bearing the unmistakable air and stamp of superiority that marks those who have just left the sacred soil of England, he scanned the faces with an eye of keen regard. To his surprise he saw the gentlemen he had marked respectively as Mr. Howells and the publisher greet people who had not the slightest resemblance to the poet, and go with them to the customs alcoves89. Traveller after traveller hurried past him, followed by stewards90 carrying luggage; gradually the flow of people thinned, and then stopped altogether, save for one or two invalids91 who were being helped down the incline by nurses. And still no sign of Finsbury Verne.
Suddenly a thought struck him. Was it possible that—the second class? His eye brightened and he hurried to the gangway, fifty yards farther down the pier, where the second-cabin passengers were disembarking.
There were more of the latter, and the passageway was still thronged92. Just as Stockton reached the foot of the plank93 a little man in green ulster and deerstalker cap, followed by a plump little woman and four children in single file, each holding fast to the one in front like Alpine94 climbers, came down the narrow bridge, taking almost ludicrous care not to slip on the cleated boards. To his amazement95 the reviewer recognized the dark beard and soulful eyes of the poet.
Mr. Verne clutched in rigid96 arms, not a roll of manuscripts, but a wriggling97 French poodle, whose tufted tail waved under the poet's chin. The lady behind him, evidently his wife, as she clung steadfastly98 to the skirt of his ulster, held tightly in the other hand a large glass jar in which two agitated99 goldfish were swimming, while the four children watched their parents with anxious eyes for the safety of their pets. "Daddy, look out for Ink!" shrilled100 one of them, as the struggles of the poodle very nearly sent him into the water under the ship's side. Two smiling stewards with mountainous portmanteaux followed the party. "Mother, are Castor and Pollux all right?" cried the smallest child, and promptly101 fell on his nose on the gangway, disrupting the file.
Stockton, with characteristic delicacy102, refrained from making himself known until the Vernes had recovered from the embarrassments103 of leaving the ship. He followed them at a distance to the "V" section where they waited for the customs examination. With mingled105 feelings he saw that Finsbury Verne was no cloud-walking deity106, but one even as himself, indifferently clad, shy and perplexed107 of eye, worried with the comic cares of a family man. All his heart warmed toward the poet, who stood in his bulging108 greatcoat, perspiring109 and aghast at the uproar110 around him. He shrank from imagining what might happen when he appeared at home with the whole family, but without hesitation111 he approached and introduced himself.
Verne's eyes shone with unaffected pleasure at the meeting, and he presented the reviewer to his wife and the children, two boys and two girls. The two boys, aged20 about ten and eight, immediately uttered cryptic112 remarks which Stockton judged were addressed to him.
"Castorian!" cried the larger boy, looking at the yellow suit.
"Polluxite!" piped the other in the same breath.
Mrs. Verne, in some embarrassment104, explained that the boys were in the throes of a new game they had invented on the voyage. They had created two imaginary countries, named in honour of the goldfish, and it was now their whim113 to claim for their respective countries any person or thing that struck their fancy. "Castoria was first," said Mrs. Verne, "so you must consider yourself a citizen of that nation."
Somewhat shamefaced at this sudden honour, Mr. Stockton turned to the poet. "You're all coming home with me, aren't you?" he said. "I got your telegram this morning. We'd be delighted to have you."
"It's awfully114 good of you," said the poet, "but as a matter of fact we're going straight on to the country to-morrow morning. My wife has some relatives in Yonkers, wherever they are, and she and the children are going to stay with them. I've got to go up to Harvard to give some lectures."
A rush of cool, sweet relief bathed Stockton's brow.
"My dear fellow, we could never impose such a party on your hospitality," said Verne. "Perhaps you can recommend us to some quiet hotel where we can stay the night."
Like all New Yorkers, Stockton could hardly think of the name of any hotel when asked suddenly. At first he said the Astor House, and then remembered that it had been demolished116 years before. At last he recollected117 that a brother of his from Indiana had once stayed at the Obelisk118.
After the customs formalities were over—not without embarrassment, as Mr. Verne's valise when opened displayed several pairs of bright red union suits and a half-empty bottle of brandy—Stockton convoyed them to a taxi. Noticing the frayed119 sleeve of the poet's ulster he felt quite ashamed of the aggressive newness of his clothes. And when the visitors whirled away, after renewed promises for a meeting a little later in the spring, he stood for a moment in a kind of daze120. Then he hurried toward the nearest telephone booth.
As the Vernes sat at dinner that night in the Abyssinian Room of the Obelisk Hotel, the poet said to his wife: "It would have been delightful121 to spend a few days with the Stocktons."
"My dear," said she, "I wouldn't have these wealthy Americans see how shabby we are for anything. The children are positively122 in rags, and your clothes—well, I don't know what they'll think at Harvard. You know if this lecture trip doesn't turn out well we shall be simply bankrupt."
The poet sighed. "I believe Stockton has quite a charming place in the country near New York," he said.
"That may be so," said Mrs. Verne. "But did you ever see such clothes? He looked like a canary."
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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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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aver
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| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
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revolve
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| vi.(使)旋转；循环出现 | |
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installment
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| n.(instalment)分期付款；(连载的)一期 | |
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plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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intimacy
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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obstinacy
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royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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arduous
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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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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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joyful
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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steadily
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persistently
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halfway
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gathering
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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lyrics
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graceful
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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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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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45
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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46
plumbing
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| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
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47
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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48
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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49
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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50
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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51
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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52
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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53
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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54
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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57
florists
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| n.花商，花农，花卉研究者( florist的名词复数 ) | |
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58
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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59
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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60
interned
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| v.拘留，关押( intern的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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62
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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63
fad
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| n.时尚；一时流行的狂热；一时的爱好 | |
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64
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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65
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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66
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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67
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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68
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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69
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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70
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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71
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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72
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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73
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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74
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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75
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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76
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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77
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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78
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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79
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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80
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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81
steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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82
stoutish
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| 略胖的 | |
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83
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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84
limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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85
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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86
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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87
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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88
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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89
alcoves
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| n.凹室( alcove的名词复数 )；（花园）凉亭；僻静处；壁龛 | |
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90
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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92
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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94
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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95
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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96
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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97
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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98
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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99
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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100
shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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102
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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103
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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104
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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105
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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106
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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107
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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108
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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109
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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110
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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111
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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112
cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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113
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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114
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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115
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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117
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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119
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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121
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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122
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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