Charley Potts had been "best man" at the marriage, and Geoffrey had caught a glimpse of old Bowker in hiding behind a pillar of the church. It was meet, then, that they--old companions of his former life--should see him under his altered circumstances, should know and be received by his wife, and should have the opportunity, if they wished for it, of keeping up at least a portion of the _camaraderie_ of old days. Therefore after his return to London, and when he and his wife were settled down in Elm Lodge8, Geoffrey wrote to each of his old friends, and said how glad he would be to see them in his new house.
This note found Mr. Charles Potts intent upon a representation of Mr. Tennyson's "Dora," sitting with the child in the cornfield, a commission which he had received from Mr. Caniche, and which was to be paid for by no less a sum than a hundred and fifty pounds. The "Gil Bias9" had proved a great success in the Academy, and had been purchased by a country rector, who had won a hundred-pound prize in the Art-union; so that Charley was altogether in very high feather and pecuniary10 triumph. He had not made much alteration11 in the style of his living or in the furniture of his apartment; but he had cleared off a long score for beer and grog standing12 against him in the books kept by Caroline of signal fame; he had presented Caroline herself with a cheap black-lace shawl, which had produced something like an effect at Rosherville Gardens! and he had sent a ten-pound note to the old aunt who had taken care of him after his mother's death, and who wept tears of gratified joy on its receipt, and told all Sevenoaks of the talent and the goodness of her nephew. He had paid off some other debts also, and lent a pound or two here and there among his friends, and was even after that a capitalist to the extent of having some twenty pounds in the stomach of a china sailor, originally intended as a receptacle for tobacco. His success had taken effect on Charley. He had begun to think that there was really something in him, after all; that life was, as the working-man observed, "not all beer and skittles;" and that if he worked honestly on, he might yet be able to realise a vision which had occasionally loomed13 through clouds of tobacco-smoke curling round his head; a vision of a pleasant cottage out at Kilburn, or better still at Cricklewood; with a bit of green lawn and a little conservatory14, and two or three healthy children tumbling about; while their mother, uncommonly15 like Matilda Ludlow, looked on from the ivy-covered porch; and their father, uncommonly like himself, was finishing in the studio that great work which was to necessitate16 his election into the Academy. This vision had a peculiar17 charm for him; he worked away like a horse; the telegraphic signals to Caroline and the consequent supply of beer became far less frequent; he began to eschew18 late nights, which he found led to late mornings; and the "Dora" was growing under his hand day by day.
He was hard at work and had apparently19 worked himself into a knot, for he was standing a little distance from his easel, gazing vacantly at the picture and twirling his moustache with great vigour,--a sure sign of worry with him,--when the "tugging20, of the trotter" was heard, and on his opening the door, Mr. Bowker presented himself and walked in.
"'Tis I! Bowker the undaunted! Ha, Ha!" and Mr. Bowker gave two short stamps, and lunged with his walking-stick at his friend. "Give your William drink; he is athirst. What! nothing of a damp nature about? Potts, virtue21 and industry are good things; and your William has been glad to observe that of late you have been endeavouring to practise both; but industry is not incompatible22 with pale ale, and nimble fingers are oft allied23 to a dry palate. That sounds like one of the headings of the pages from Maunders' _Treasury of Knowledge_.--Send for some beer!"
The usual pantomime was gone through by Mr. Potts, and while it was in process, Bowker filled a pipe and walked towards the easel. "Very good, Charley; very good indeed. Nice fresh look in that gal--not the usual burnt-umber rusticity24; but something--not quite--like the real ruddy peasant bronze. Child not bad either; looks as if it had got its feet in boxing-gloves, though; you must alter that; and don't make its eyes quite so much like willow-pattern saucers. What's that on the child's head?"
"Hair, of course."
"And what stuff's that the girl's sitting in?"
"Corn! cornfield--wheat, you know, and that kind of stuff. What do you mean? why do you ask?"
"Only because it seems to your William that both substances are exactly alike. If it's hair, then the girl is sitting in a hair-field; if it's corn, then the child has got corn growing on its head."
"It'll have it growing on its feet some day, I suppose," growled25 Mr. Potts, with a grin. "You're quite right, though, old man; we'll alter that at once.--Well, what's new with you?"
"New? Nothing! I hear nothing, see nothing, and know nobody. I might be a hermit-crab, only I shall never creep into any body else's shell; my own--five feet ten by two feet six--will be ready quite soon enough for me. Stop! what stuff I'm talking! I very nearly forgot the object of my coming round to you this morning. Your William is asked into society! Look; here's a letter I received last night from our Geoff, asking me to come up to see his new house and be introduced to his wife."
"I had a similar one this morning."
"I thought that was on the cards, so I came round to see what you were going to do."
"Do? I shall go, of course. So will you, won't you?"
"Well, Charley, I don't know. I'm a queer old skittle, that has been knocked about in all manner of ways, and that has had no women's society for many years. So much the better, perhaps. I'm not pretty to look at; and I couldn't talk the stuff women like to have talked to them, and I should be horribly bored if I had to listen to it. So--and yet--God forgive me for growling26 so!--there are times when I'd give any thing for a word of counsel and comfort in a woman's voice, for the knowledge that there was any woman--good woman, mind!--no matter what--mother, sister, wife--who had an interest in what I did. There! never mind that."
Mr. Bowker stopped abruptly27. Charley Potts waited for a minute; then putting his hand affectionately on his friend's shoulder, said: "But our William will make an exception for our Geoff. You've known him so long, and you're so fond of him."
"Fond of him! God bless him! No one could know Geoff without loving him, at least no one whose love was worth having. But you see there's the wife to be taken into account now."
"You surely wouldn't doubt your reception by her? The mere28 fact of your being an old friend of her husband's would be sufficient to make you welcome."
"O, Mr. Potts, Mr. Potts! you are as innocent as a sucking-dove, dear Mr. Potts, though you have painted a decent picture! To have known a man before his marriage is to be the natural enemy of his wife. However, I'll chance that, and go and see our Geoff."
"So shall I," said Potts, "though I'm rather doubtful about _my_ reception. You see I was with Geoff that night,--you know, when we met the--his wife, you know."
"So you were. Haven't you seen her since?"
"Only at the wedding, and that all in a hurry--just an introduction; that was all."
"Did she seem at all confused when she recognised you?"
"She couldn't have recognised me, because when we found her she was senseless, and hadn't come-to when we left. But of course Geoff had told her who I was, and she didn't seem in the least confused."
"Not she, if there's any truth in physiognomy," muttered old Bowker; "well, if she showed no annoyance29 at first meeting you, she's not likely to do so now, and you'll be received sweetly enough, no doubt. We may as well go together, eh?"
To this proposition Mr. Potts consented with great alacrity30, for though a leader of men in his own set, he was marvellously timid, silent, and ill at ease in the society of ladies. The mere notion of having to spend a portion of time, however short, in company with members of the other sex above the rank of Caroline, and with whom he could not exchange that free and pleasant _badinage_ of which he was so great a master, inflicted31 torture on him sufficient to render him an object of compassion32. So on a day agreed upon, the artistic33 pair set out to pay their visit to Mrs. Geoffrey Ludlow.
Their visit took place at about the time when public opinion in Lowbar was unsettled as to the propriety34 of knowing the Ludlows; and the dilatoriness35 of some of the inhabitants in accepting the position of the newcomers may probably be ascribed to the fact of the visitors having been encountered in the village. It is undeniable that the appearance of Mr. Potts and of Mr. Bowker was not calculated to impress the beholder37 with a feeling of respect, or a sense of their position in society. Holding this to be a gala-day, Mr. Potts had extracted a bank-note from the stomach of the china sailor, and expended38 it at the "emporium" of an outfitter in Oxford39 Street, in the purchase of a striking, but particularly ill-fitting, suit of checked clothes--coat, waistcoat, and trousers to match. His boots, of an unyielding leather, had very thick clump40 soles, which emitted curious wheezings and groanings as he walked; and his puce-coloured gloves were baggy41 at all the fingers' ends, and utterly42 impenetrable as regarded the thumbs. His white hat was a little on one side, and his moustaches were twisted with a ferocity which, however fascinating to the maid-servants at the kitchen-windows, failed to please the ruralising cits and citizenesses, who were accustomed to regard a white hat as the distinctive43 badge of card-sharpers, and a moustache as the outward and visible sign of swindling. Mr. Bowker had made little difference in his ordinary attire44. He wore a loose shapeless brown garment which was more like a cloth dressing-gown than a paletot; a black waistcoat frayed45 at the pockets from constant contact with his pipe-stem, and so much too short that the ends of his white-cotton braces46 were in full view; also a pair of gray trousers of the cut which had been in fashion when their owner was in fashion--made very full over the boot, and having broad leather straps47. Mr. Bowker also wore a soft black wideawake hat, and perfumed the fragrant48 air with strong cavendish tobacco, fragments of which decorated his beard. The two created a sensation as they strode up the quiet High Street; and when they rang at Elm Lodge Geoffrey's pretty servant-maid was ready to drop between admiration49 at Mr. Potts's appearance and a sudden apprehension50 that Mr. Bowker had come after the plate.
She had, however, little time for the indulgence of either feeling; for Geoffrey, who had been expecting the arrival of hi friends, with a degree of nervousness unintelligible51 to himself, no sooner heard the bell than he rushed out from his studio and received his old comrades with great cordiality. He shook hands heartily52 with Charley Potts; but a certain hesitation53 mingled with the warmth of his greeting of Bowker; and his talk rattled54 on from broken sentence to broken sentence, as though he were desirous of preventing his friend from speaking until he himself had had his say.
"How d'ye do, Charley? so glad to see you; and you, Bowker, my good old friend: it is thoroughly55 kind of you to come out here; and--long way, you know, and out of your usual beat, I know. Well, so you see Ive joined the noble army of martyrs,--not that I mean that of course; but--eh, you didn't expect I would do it, did you? I couldn't say, like the girl in the Scotch56 song, 'I'm owre young to marry yet,' could I? However, thank God, I think you'll say my wife is--what a fellow I am! keeping you fellows out here in this broiling57 sun; and you haven't--at least you, Bowker, haven't been introduced to her. Come along--come in!"
He preceded them to the drawing-room, where Margaret was waiting to receive them. It was a hot staring day in the middle of a hot staring summer. The turf was burnt brown; the fields spreading between Elm Lodge and Hampstead, usually so cool and verdant58, were now arid59 wastes; the outside blinds of the house were closed to exclude the scorching60 light, and there was no sound save the loud chirping61 of grasshoppers62. A great weariness was on Margaret that day; she had tried to rouse herself, but found it impossible, so had sat all through the morning staring vacantly before her, busy with old memories. Between her past and her present life there was so little in common, that these memories were seldom roused by associations. The dull never-changing domestic day, and the pretty respectability of Elm Lodge, did not recal the wild Parisian revels63, the rough pleasant Bohemianism of garrison-lodgings, the sumptuous64 luxury of the Florentine villa36. But there was something in the weather to-day--in the bright fierce glare of the sun, in the solemn utterly-unbroken stillness--which brought back to her mind one when she and Leonard and some others were cruising off the Devonshire coast in Tom Marshall's yacht; a day on which, with scarcely a breath of air to be felt, they lay becalmed in Babbicombe Bay; under an awning65, of course, over which the men from time to time worked the fire-hose; and how absurdly funny Tom Marshall was when the ice ran short. Leonard said--The gate-bell rang, and her husband's voice was heard in hearty66 welcome of his friends.
In welcome of his friends! Yes, there at least she could do her duty; there she could give pleasure to her husband. She could not give him her love; she had tried, and found it utterly impossible; but equally impossible was it to withhold67 from him her respect. Day by day she honoured him more and more; as she watched his patient honesty, his indomitable energy, his thorough helplessness; as she learned--in spite of herself as it were--more of himself; for Geoff had always thought one of the chiefest pleasures of matrimony must be to have some one capable of receiving all one's confidences. As she, with a certain love of psychological analysis possessed68 by some women went through his character, and discovered loyalty69 and truth in every thought and every deed, she felt half angry with herself for her inability to regard him with that love which his qualities ought to have inspired. She had been accustomed to tell herself, and half-believed, that she had no conscience; but this theory, which she had maintained during nearly all the earlier portion of her life vanished as she learned to know and to appreciate her husband. She had a conscience, and she felt it; under its influence she made some struggles, ineffectual indeed, but greater than she at one time would have attempted. What was it that prevented her from giving this man his due, her heart's love? His appearance? No he was not a "girl's man" certainly, not the delicious military vision which sets throbbing70 the hearts of sweet seventeen: by no means romantic-looking, but a thoroughly manly71 gentleman--big, strong, and well-mannered. Had he been dwarfed72 or deformed73, vulgar, dirty--and even in the present days of tubbing and Turkish baths, there are men who possess genius and are afraid it may come off in hot water,--had he been "common," an expressive74 word meaning something almost as bad as dirt and vulgarity,--Margaret could have satisfied her newly-found conscience, or at least accounted for her feelings. But he was none of these, and she admitted it; and so at the conclusion of her self-examination fell back, not without a feeling of semi-complacency, to the conviction that it was not he, but she herself who was in fault; that she did not give him her heart simply because she had no heart to give; that she had lived and loved, but that, however long she might yet live, she could never love again.
These thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, not for the first, nor even for the hundredth time, as she sat down upon the sofa and took up the first book which came to hand, not even making a pretence75 of reading it, but allowing it to lie listlessly on her lap. Geoffrey came first, closely followed by Charley Potts, who advanced in a sheepish way, holding out his hand. Margaret smiled slightly and gave him her hand with no particular expression, a little dignified76 perhaps, but even that scarcely noticeable. Then Bowker, who had kept his keen eyes upon her from the moment he entered the room, and whom she had seen and examined while exchanging civilities with Potts, was brought forward by Geoffrey, and introduced as "one of my oldest and dearest friends." Margaret advanced as Bowker approached, her face flushed a little, and her eyes wore their most earnest expression, as she said, "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Bowker. I have heard of you from Geoffrey. I am sure we shall be very good friends." She gripped his hand and looked him straight in the face as she said this, and in that instant William Bowker divined that Margaret had heard of, and knew and sympathised with, the story of his life.
She seemed tacitly to acknowledge that there was a bond of union between them. She was as polite as could be expected of her to Charley Potts; but she addressed herself especially to Bowker when any point for discussion arose. These were not very frequent, for the conversation carried on was of a very ordinary kind. How they liked their new house, and whether they had seen much of the people of the neighbourhood; how they had enjoyed their honeymoon77 in the Isle78 of Wight; and trivialities of a similar character. Charley Potts, prevented by force of circumstances from indulging in his peculiar humour, and incapable79 from sheer ignorance of bearing his share of general conversation when a lady was present, had several times attempted to introduce the one subject, which, in any society, he could discuss at his ease, art--"shop;" but on each occasion had found his proposition rigorously ignored both by Margaret and Bowker, who seemed to consider it out of place, and who were sufficiently80 interested in their own talk. So Charley fell back Upon Geoff, who, although delighted at seeing how well his wife was getting on with his friend, yet had sufficient kindness of heart to step in to Charley's rescue, and to discuss with him the impossibility of accounting81 for the high price obtained by Smudge; the certainty that Scumble's popularity would be merely evanescent; the disgraceful favouritism displayed by certain men "on the council;" in short, all that kind of talk which is so popular and so unfailing in the simple kindly82 members of the art-world. So on throughout lunch; and, indeed, until the mention of Geoffrey's pictures then in progress necessitated83 the generalising of the conversation, and they went away (Margaret with them) to the studio. Arrived within those walls, Mr. Potts, temporarily oblivious84 of the presence of a lady, became himself again. The mingled smell of turpentine and tobacco, the sight of the pictures on the easels, and Of Geoff's pipe-rack on the wall, a general air of carelessness and discomfort85, all came gratefully to Mr. Potts who opened his chest, spread out his arms, shook himself as does a dog just emerged from the water--probably in his case to get rid of any clinging vestige86 of respectability--and said in a very hungry tone:
"Now, Geoff, let's have a smoke, old boy."
"You might as well wait until you knew whether Mrs. Ludlow made any objection, Charley," said Bowker, in a low tone.
"Pray don't apologise, Mr. Potts; I am thoroughly accustomed to smoke; have been for--"
"Yes, of course; ever since you married Geoff you have been thoroughly smoke-dried," interrupted Bowker, at whom Margaret shot a short quick glance, half of interrogation, half of gratitude88.
They said no more on the smoke subject just then, but proceeded to a thorough examination of the picture which Charley Potts pronounced "regularly stunning," and which Mr. Bowker criticised in a much less explosive manner. He praised the drawing, the painting, the general arrangement; he allowed that Geoffrey was doing every thing requisite89 to obtain for himself name, fame, and wealth in the present day; but he very much doubted whether that was all that was needed. With the French judge he would very much have doubted the necessity of living, if to live implied the abnegation of the first grand principles of art, its humanising and elevated influence. Bowker saw no trace of these in the undeniable cleverness of the Brighton Esplanade; and though he was by no means sparing of his praise, his lack of enthusiasm, as compared with the full-flavoured ecstasy90 of Charley Potts, struck upon Margaret's ear. Shortly afterwards, while Geoffrey and Potts were deep in a discussion on colour, she turned to Mr. Bowker, and said abruptly:
"You are not satisfied with Geoffrey's picture?"
He smiled somewhat grimly as he said, "Satisfied is a very strong word, Mrs. Ludlow. There are some of us in the world who have sufficient good sense not to be satisfied with what we do ourselves--"
"That's true, Heaven knows," she interrupted involuntarily.
"And are consequently not particularly likely to be content with what's done by other people. I think Geoff's picture good, very good of its sort; but I don't--I candidly91 confess--like its sort. He is a man full of appreciation92 of nature, character, and sentiment; a min who, in the expression of his own art, is as capable of rendering93 poetic94 feeling as--By Jove, now why didn't he think of that subject that Charley Potts has got under weigh just now? That would have suited Geoff exactly."
"What is it?"
"Dora--Tennyson's Dora, you know." Margaret bowed in acquiescence95. "There's a fine subject, if you like. Charley's painting it very well, so far as it goes; but he doesn't feel it. Now Geoff would. A man must have something more than facile manipulation; he must have the soul of a poet before he could depict96 the expression which must necessarily be on such a face. There are few who could understand, fewer still who could interpret to others, such heart-feelings of that most beautiful of Tennyson's creations as would undoubtedly97 show themselves in her face; the patient endurance of unrequited love, which 'loves on through all ills, and loves on till she dies;' which neither the contempt nor the death of its object can extinguish, but which then flows, in as pure, if not as strong, a current towards his widow and his child."
Margaret had spoken at first, partly for the sake of saying something, partly because her feeling for her husband admitted of great pride in his talent, which she thought Bowker had somewhat slighted. But now she was thoroughly roused, her eyes bright, her hair pushed back off her face, listening intently to him. When he ceased, she looked up strangely, and said:
"Do you believe in the existence of such love?"
"O yes," he replied; "it's rare, of course. Especially rare is the faculty98 of loving hopelessly without the least chance of return--loving stedfastly and honestly as Dora did, I mean. With most people unrequited love turns into particularly bitter hatred99, or into that sentimental100 maudlin101 state of 'broken heart,' which is so comforting to its possessor and so wearying to his friends. But there _are_ exceptional cases where such love exists, and in these, no matter how fought against, it can never be extinguished."
"I suppose you are right," said Margaret; "there must be such instances."
Bowker looked hard at her, but she had risen from her seat and was rejoining the others.
"What's your opinion of Mrs. Ludlow, William?" asked Charley Potts, as they walked away puffing102 their pipes in the calm summer night air. "Handsome woman, isn't she?"
"Very handsome!" replied Bowker; "wondrously103 handsome!" Then reflectively--"It's a long time since your William has seen any thing like that. All in all--face, figure, manner--wondrously perfect! She walks like a Spaniard, and--"
"Yes, Geoff's in luck; at least I suppose he is. There's something about her which is not quite to my taste. I think I like a British element, which is not to be found in her. I don't know what it is--only something--well, something less of the duchess about her. I don't think she's quite in our line--is she, Bowker, old boy?"
"That's because you're very young in the world's ways, Charley, and also because Geoff's wife is not very like Geoff's sister, I'm thinking." Whereat Mr. Potts grew very red, told his friend to "shut up!" and changed the subject.
"That night Mr. Bowker sat on the edge of his truckle-bed in his garret in Hart Street, Bloomsbury, holding in his left hand a faded portrait in a worn morocco case. He looked at it long and earnestly, while his right hand wafted104 aside the thick clouds of tobacco-smoke pouring over it from his pipe. He knew every line of it, every touch of colour in it; but he sat gazing at it this night as though it were an entire novelty, studying it with a new interest.
"Yes," said he at length, "she's very like you, my darling, very like you,--hair, eyes, shape, all alike; and she seems to have that same clinging, undying love which you had, my darling--that same resistless, unquenchable, undying love. But that love is not for Geoff; God help him, dear fellow! that love is not for Geoff!"
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1
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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pretentiousness
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| n.矫饰；炫耀；自负；狂妄 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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scurrility
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| n.粗俗下流；辱骂的言语 | |
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6
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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7
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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8
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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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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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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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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34
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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35
dilatoriness
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| n.迟缓，拖延 | |
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36
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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37
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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38
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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39
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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40
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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41
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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42
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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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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46
braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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47
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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48
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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51
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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52
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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53
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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54
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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56
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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62
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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63
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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66
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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74
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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75
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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76
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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77
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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78
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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79
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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80
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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81
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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82
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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83
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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86
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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87
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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88
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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89
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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90
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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92
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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93
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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94
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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95
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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96
depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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97
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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98
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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99
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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100
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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101
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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102
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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103
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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104
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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