The night before he went to Godalming he dined with the Jackmans. The family consisted of Mrs. Jackman, a homely11 woman, who spent most of her time at a Y.M.C.A. canteen on the south side of the river, two young girls and a boy home on leave from France. A few guests had been invited to meet John Baltazar; a colonel of artillery12 on sick leave, a notoriously question-asking Conservative member of Parliament, a judge, the wives of the two last, and a woman just back from eighteen months’ Red Cross work on the Russian front. A typical war gathering13.
As soon as chance enabled him to speak to his host after his entrance into this galaxy14 of civilization, he said:
“Man alive! you shouldn’t have asked all these people. I’ve not been in a European drawing-room for twenty years. My instinct is to wander about, growling15, like a bear.”
Jackman, a florid, good-natured, clean-shaven man, laughed.
“It’s for your good. The sooner you get into the ways of the world the better.”
“But what the devil shall I talk about?”
“Let the other people talk. You listen. I thought that was what you wanted.”
Baltazar sat between Mrs. Jackman and the lady from Russia. At first he felt somewhat embarrassed, even dazed. He had not conversed16 with intelligent women since his flight from England. Even in his brave University days, his scholarly habits had precluded17 him from mingling18 much in the general society of Cambridge. Now the broad feminine outlook somewhat mystified him. The vital question which once was referred to in bated breath as the Social Evil, cropped up, he knew not how. His two neighbours talked across him with a calm frankness that rendered him speechless. He looked around the table, apprehensive19 lest the two young girls might be overhearing the conversation. Their mother did not seem to care in the least. She quoted statistics in a loud, clear voice. The Red Cross lady sketched20 conditions in Russia. The question was suddenly put to him: What about China? The fifty-year-old child of a forgotten day caught at the opening and talked hurriedly. He had lived in the heart of old China, mainly an agricultural population, a more or less moral, ancestor-fearing and tradition-bound welter of humanity. There was much to be said for old China, in spite of the absence of elementary ideas of sanitation21 and the ignorance of the new-fangled Western science of eugenics. Even now girl children’s feet were being bound. The ladies followed his desperate red herring and began a less alarming argument on infant welfare. When pressed for his opinion, he said:
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a baby at close quarters. I don’t remember ever having touched one. I have it on hearsay22 that the proper thing to do is to prod5 a baby’s cheek with the tip of your finger, which you wipe surreptitiously on your trousers. But I haven’t done it. I know nothing at all about ’em. In fact, your proposition that babies are an important part of the body politic23 has never occurred to me. In prolific24 China babies spring up like weeds, unregarded. Some of them die, some of them live. And the living are for the most part weeds too. One gets used there to an almost animal conception of the phenomena25 of life and death. I’m learning all sorts of things, getting all sorts of new points of view. Just see if I’m right. Modern Europe isn’t China. Even before the war, the birth-rate was a matter of anxiety. Now Europe, de-populated of her male youth, is in a desperate quandary26. Every baby is a priceless asset to the race. Lord!” said he, pushing spoon and fork abruptly27 together on his plate, “I never thought of it. I must appear to you like a fellow on a great Cunarder, proclaiming his discovery of America. But the discovery is there all the same. The idea never entered my head till this minute. Everybody’s got to produce babies as fast as they can, and everybody’s sacred duty is to see that they live and thrive and become potential parents of more healthy babies. That’s the proposition, isn’t it?”
Comfortable Mrs. Jackman smilingly agreed. Without doubt that was the proposition. The flower of the world cut off by the war. . . . Oh! it staggered imagination to speculate on the number of bright young lives sacrificed! There was So-and-So, and Somebody Else’s son. Too tragic28! The talk turned at once to the terrible intimacy29 of the war. Baltazar listened and learned many things.
When the men were left alone, Baltazar learned more things about the war; the blunders, the half-heartednesses, the mysterious influences that petrified30 action. The soldier spoke31 of the fierce fight of a devoted32 little set of enthusiasts33 for an adequate supply of machine guns; the judge of hidden German ramifications34 against which he, as a mere35 administrator36 of written law, was powerless; the Conservative member of Parliament—his revelations made every particular hair of Baltazar’s brown thatch37 stand on end. Jackman talked of labour troubles, mentioned a recent case in which thousands of men making essential munitions38 of war had downed tools because a drunken pacifist, a workman, had been dismissed from a factory. Baltazar, only a month awakened39 to the fact of war, held the same bewildered view of strikes as had nearly driven him forth40 at midnight from Pillivant’s house. He burst out:
The Member of Parliament laughed aloud:
“There’s nothing like a fresh mind on things.”
“Well, why don’t they?”
“Don’t you think,” said the judge, “that such a course might tend to dishearten the working classes?”
“It wouldn’t dishearten the Army,” declared the literal-minded Colonel. “The men would be all for it. If any fellows tried to go on strike in the Army they’d be shot on sight.”
He was the only one of the company who advocated violent measures. The others seemed to regard strikes as phenomena of nature impeding42 the war like artillery-arresting mud, or as inevitable43 accidents like explosions in powder factories. Baltazar went away full of undigested knowledge.
On his return from Godalming he dined with Weatherley, a bachelor, and a small gathering of fellow publicists. Here the conversation ran on more intellectual lines. The war was considered from the international standpoint, discussions turned on the subject-races of Austria, the inner history of the Roumanian campaign, the sinister44 situation in Greece, the failure of Allied45 diplomacy46 all through Eastern Europe. Baltazar listened eagerly to the good keen talk, and went back to his hotel braced47 and exhilarated. Even if they had all been talking through their hats, it would not matter. Premises48 granted, the logic49 of it all had been faultless, an intellectual joy. And they had not been talking through their hats. They were men who knew, men who had access to vital information apparently50 despised by the Foreign Office.
He had fallen into a universe which seemed to be more and more inextricably jumbled51 as his outlook widened. But how splendidly interesting! Take just the little fraction of it given up to the Czecho-Slovacs and the Jugo-Slavs . . . Serbs, Croats, Slovenes. . . . He had hitherto paid as little attention to them as to Lepidoptera and Coleoptera, and other families of bugs52 with Latin names, to whose history and habits, not being an entomologist, he was perfectly53 indifferent. He had never thought of them as possible factors in the future of Europe. Now that he was in touch with his kind again, London ceased to be a city of dreadful night. In his enthusiastic eyes it had almost become a ville lumière.
A week had wrought54 miraculous55 changes—that day the most miraculous of all. At the back of his delight, through the evening’s rare entertainment ran a thrill of amazed happiness. A week ago he had floundered here derelict, lost, unwanted, a sick Chinaman his only link with humanity. Now he was safe on sunny seas, bound once more to life by friends, by a new-found son, in itself an adamantine tie, and, wonder of wonders, by the woman for whose sake he had revolutionized his existence and whose fragrant56 girlish memory had sanctified his after years.
He might have married well in China. Polygamy being recognized, the fact of his having a wife alive in England would not have rendered such a marriage illegal according to Chinese law. He had many opportunities, for he held a position there unique for a European; and a delicately nurtured57 Chinese lady can be an exquisite58 thing in womanhood, more than alluring59 to a lonely, full-blooded man. But ever between him and a not dishonourable temptation had floated the flower-shape of the English girl with her pink and white face and her light brown hair and her hazel eyes, through which shone her English wit and her English understanding and her English love and her English soul. Not that he had eaten out his heart for twenty years for Marcelle. He had wiped her as a disturbing element clean out of his existence. His loyalty60 had been passive rather than active. He had made no attempt to throw open gates and go in search of her. But at hostile approach the gates had been uncompromisingly shut.
The wonder of wonders had happened. In one respect, the wonder of all possible wonders had happened.
There had been no disillusion61.
In the gap of twenty years between girl and woman, what devastating62 life forces might have been at work, wiping bloom from cheek, dulling gleam from eyes, distorting lips, smiting63 haggard lines on face, hardening or unshapening sweet and beloved contours; hardening, too, the mind, drying up the heart, arresting the development of the soul? As he had never thought to see her in this world again, he had not speculated on such a natural life-change. It was only now, when he had met her in the gracious fullness of her woman’s beauty, that he shivered at the thought of that which might have been and exulted64 in the knowledge of that which was. He remembered a woman, a friend of his wife, though much older, a lovely dream of a woman of the fair, frail65 type, who had disappeared from Cambridge for two or three years and then returned—suddenly old, as though a withering66 hand had passed over her face. No such hand had touched Marcelle. Then he pulled himself up and thought. How old is she? Thirty-eight—thirty-nine. Twelve years younger than himself. He laughed out loud. A mere child! What could she yet have to do with withering hands? Fifty—thirty-eight! The heyday67 of life. What is fifty when a man feels as young as at twenty-five? Novelists and dramatists were responsible for the conventional idea of the decrepitude68 of man after forty. The brilliant and compelling works of fiction are generally the inspirations of young men who think the thirties are an age of incipient69 decay. “An old dangling70 bachelor who was single at fifty!” cries the abusive Lady Teazle. An old bachelor of fifty! Sheridan, of six-and-twenty, thought of Sir Peter as the lean and slippered71 pantaloon; and so has dramatic tradition always represented him.
“Damn it!” cried Baltazar, feeling his muscles as he strode about his bedroom, “I’m as hard as iron.”
Satisfied with his youth, he sat down and wrote impulsive72 pages to Marcelle, which he posted in the hotel post-box before going to bed.
He ordered lunch the next day in the great room of the Savoy.
“I’m having my son,” he said to the ma?tre-d’hotel, with a thrill at the new and unfamiliar73 word. “He has been wounded. I want the very best you can do for us.” The ma?tre-d’hotel, pencil and pad in hand, made profuse74 suggestions. But Baltazar had forgotten the terms and indeed the items of European gastronomy75. “I leave it in your hands. The best the Savoy can do. It’s the first meal I’ve had with my son—since—— And wine. Champagne76. What do you recommend?”
The ma?tre-d’hotel pointed77 to a 1904 vintage on the list. There was nothing better, said he. Baltazar agreed, suddenly aware that he knew no more of vintage wines than of artillery drill. His ignorance irritated him.
“Do you mind if I look at that for a little?”
The ma?tre-d’hotel handed him the wine list, and for half an hour he sat by a table in the great empty restaurant studying the names of the various wines and their vintages. Then, having mastered the information, he began long before the appointed hour to pace up and down the vestibule with an eye on every taxi-cab that swung round the rubber-paved courtyard and deposited its fares at the door, as impatient as any young subaltern waiting for his inamorata.
Very proudly he conducted Godfrey to the reserved table in the middle of the room. He would have liked to proclaim to each group of lunchers as he passed: “This is my son, you know. Wounded and decorated for valour.” To those who regarded them with any attention, they were obviously father and son. But this Baltazar did not realize.
“My boy,” said he, when the waiter had filled the two glasses, “I hope you like champagne. For myself I am a confirmed teetotaller. But I come from a land of strict ceremonial—and ceremonial ideas have got into my bones. Our first meal together—we must drink in wine to what the future has in store for us.”
He smiled and held out his glass across the table. They touched rims78. Baltazar took a sip79, then put his champagne aside and filled a tumbler with mineral water. Godfrey was struck by the courtesy and suavity80 of manner with which his father conducted the little ceremony; also, as the lunch progressed, by his perfect hostship and by his charming conversation. The disconnected dynamo could be, when he chose, a very pleasant gentleman. By his tone and attitude he conveyed a man of the world’s suggestion that this might be the beginning of an agreeable acquaintance. Godfrey began to revise his first impression of his father. Confidence increasing, he yielded to subtle pressure and spoke in his English objective way about himself; about his schooldays, his ambitions, his entrance scholarship, his brief University career. He explained how his intimacy with Sister Baring sprang from the unfruitful pages of Routh’s Rigid81 Dynamics82.
“That’s how, sir. And then she told me she had read with you—and eventually all the rest came.”
“Life is very simple,” said Baltazar, “if we would only let it take its own course. It’s when we begin to mess about with it ourselves that the tangles84 come.”
When the meal was ended and coffee and cigars were brought round, the young man threw off further garments of reserve.
“I wonder whether I may ask you a question, sir?”
“A million,” replied Baltazar, “and I’ll do my best to answer every one.”
“It’s only this. You were such a great mathematician85 when you left Cambridge. I’ve been wondering all the time since yesterday what has happened—whether you’ve chucked mathematics or what——”
“My boy,” said Baltazar, “you’ve touched on tragedy.”
“I’m sorry,” said Godfrey.
“Oh, you haven’t been indiscreet. By no means. You’re bound to hear it sooner or later. So why not now? But it will take a little time. What are your engagements?”
“My afternoon is at your disposal, sir.”
“Very good,” said Baltazar. “I shall now proceed to tell you the amazing story of Spendale Farm, Quong Ho, and the Zeppelin.”
Godfrey laughed. Youth that has drunk most of a bottle of perfect champagne can afford to be indulgent.
“That has quite an Oriental flavour,” said he.
“A blend,” smiled Baltazar.
The waiter, previously86 summoned, brought the bill. Godfrey, shrewd observer, noted87 with gratification that his father merely glanced at the total, and waved away the waiter with payment and tip all in the fraction of a second. But a little while ago he had lunched, grudgingly88 dutiful, with his uncle, Sir Richard Woodcott, who, when the bill was presented, had ticked off the items with a gold pencil, comparing the prices with the bill of fare, and had sent for the manager to protest a charge for two portions of potatoes when only one was consumed, he being forbidden potatoes by his medical man. He had raised his voice and made a clatter89, and neighbouring parties had smiled derisively90 and Godfrey had reddened and glowered91 and wished either that the earth would swallow him up or that hell-fire would engulf92 his millionaire uncle and trustee.
“I see now, sir,” said he, “why I’m always broke to the world.”
Baltazar flashed on him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t look at my bills either,” said he.
Baltazar bent93 his keen gaze on his son. The remark had some significance. At first he was puzzled. Then the solution flashed on him.
“You’re thinking of that damned Woodcott crowd.”
“I’ve lived in a country where unless you guess what the other fellow is thinking of, you may be led astray by what he says. It’s a sort of game.” He let the long ash of his cigar fall into his coffee-cup, and, remembering Quong Ho, added, with his queer honesty: “I don’t pretend to be an adept95, as you will gather from the tale which I propose to relate. Perhaps arm-chairs in a corner of the lounge might be more comfortable.”
They rose. The heavily tipped waiter sprang to aid Godfrey with his crutches96. The boy paused. Baltazar waved him courteously97 on.
“Go ahead.”
On their way out they passed by a round table at which a large party were assembled. Suddenly a young officer sprang up and laid a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder.
“Hallo! Hallo, dear old chap! It’s years since I’ve seen you.”
“Not since we’ve been in uniform.”
“By Jove, that’s true!” He pointed to the M.C. ribbon. “Splendid, old chap, glorious!”
“Oh, hell!” said the other.
“Kinnaird,” said Godfrey, “let me introduce you to my father.”
Baltazar beamed. His quick eyes gathered curious glances from the luncheon99 party. It was a proud moment, inaugurating a definite parental100 position. He wrung101 the young man’s hand cordially. Godfrey explained: “Kinnaird and I were at Winchester and Cambridge together. He’s a classical swell102. When the war came it swallowed us up with different mouths.” He turned to his friend. “Where have you been all the time?”
“Gallipoli. Then a soft turn in Egypt. And you?”
“Flanders and France.”
“I’m off to France next week.”
“Let us meet before you go. Where are you to be found?”
They exchanged addresses. On leave-taking:
“I’m proud to have met you, sir,” said Kinnaird. He turned and sat down at his table. Father and son continued their way to the lounge.
“Was that last remark of your friend,” asked Baltazar, “unusual politeness, or did it mean anything?”
“Most of my University friends, sir,” replied Godfrey, “know who my father was.”
“Oh!” said Baltazar, with knit brows. “Oh, indeed! Anyhow it was very polite. Look here, my boy,” he went on, as they halted by a secluded103 and inviting104 little table, “I’ve been struck lately by an outward and visible sign of what seems to me to be an inward, invisible grace. When I was your age, having left school and masters behind me, I would have seen anybody damned first before I called them ‘sir’—except royalty105, of course. Now I come back into the world as an elderly codger, and both of you young chaps ‘sir’ me punctiliously106.”
“I suppose the Army is teaching us manners,” said Godfrey.
“Then the war is of some good, after all,” commented Baltazar. “And this reversion to an ancient code provides you with a mode of address which saves you, my young friend, from considerable embarrassment107.”
Godfrey, quick and sensitive, glanced for an instant at the firm lips drawn108 down in a humorous smile and at the kindly109 indulgence in the keen eyes, and then broke into a laugh.
“Let us be grateful, sir, to the Chinoiserie of the eighteenth century.”
Baltazar folded his arms and contemplated110 his son admiringly.
“Do you know, I couldn’t have got out of it like that if I had thought for a thousand years. Let us sit down.” And when they had settled themselves by the wall on the fringe of the crowded lounge, he went on: “You young men are not the least problem which a Cyrano dropped from the peaceful moon like myself has to solve.”
“I’m afraid we don’t quite know what we’re playing at ourselves,” said Godfrey.
Again Baltazar felt pleased with the boy’s reply. An understanding fellow; one who could get to the thought behind a few words.
“I wish to God I had known you all your life,” said he.
At the appeal to sentiment, Godfrey shied like a horse.
“It wouldn’t have affected111 what the war has made of me. I should have joined up just the same, and, just the same, I should have had a hell of a time in a perpetual blue funk which I had to hide, and should have come out minus a foot; and just the same too I should have wondered how on earth I’m going to stick the University—if I do go back—with its childish little rules and restrictions—to say nothing of its limited outlook.”
“Two or three years ago,” said Baltazar, following his son’s lead, “if I heard a fellow of twenty talk about the limited outlook of the University of Cambridge, I should have said that his proper sphere was the deepest inferno112 of insufferable young prigs provided by another ancient seat of learning situated113 also on the banks of a river. As your tutor, I should have had even nastier and more sarcastic114 things than that to say to you. But now, in this new and incomprehensible world, I’m perfectly ready to agree with you. What is there of the conduct or meaning of life that our dear old pragmatical drake of a Crosby and his train of ducks can teach men like your friend Kinnaird and yourself? It’s like a bunch of hares sitting down before an old tortoise and being taught how to run. Isn’t that the way of it?”
“I suppose it is,” replied Godfrey, laughing. “I don’t want to crab115 men like the master. Nothing can take away their scholarship, which, after all, is vital to human progress—and, of course, as far as that goes, I’m perfectly willing to sit at their feet—but—well—I know you see what I mean, sir. It’s very jolly of you, as one of the elder crowd, and very unusual, to be so sympathetic.”
“I’ll go further than that,” said Baltazar. “As one of the elder crowd, I should like to have the benefit of your concentrated experience of modern life, and that is why I propose to tell you my story of Spendale Farm, Quong Ho, and the Zeppelin. It’s my Ancient Mariner’s tale, and you cannot choose but hear. But for the Lord’s sake tell what you can remember of it to Sister Baring, for I’m sick to death of it.”
It was nearly five o’clock when he had finished. Finding Godfrey a sensitive listener, he had expounded116 with many picturesque117 and intimate details the story which he had roughly told so often. The reason for his sudden self-condemnation to exile he had glossed118 over, as he had done when first he had accounted for himself to Sheepshanks. Oddly enough, no one, not even this son of his, with the quick insight forced to maturity119 by the hot-house of war, boggled at the reason. All accepted his maniacal120 proceeding121 as in keeping with the impulsive eccentricity122 of his career. Besides, the mere fact of a man being able so to eliminate from his surroundings every whisper of the outside world as to live in England and remain in absolute ignorance of the war for a couple of years, staggered credulity and eclipsed minor123 considerations.
“Well,” said Baltazar, with a big gesture of both arms, “that’s how it is. To sum up. Eighteen years’ blank ignorance of, and indifference124 to, European history—political, social, moral, artistic125, scientific. A week’s dismay and disgust. Two years’ seclusion126 devoted to the consolidation127 of my life’s work. The whole thing wiped out in a night. Awakening128 to find the world had been at war for two years. Myself adrift in a sort of typhoon, with not a human straw to cling to but my adopted son, this extraordinary mathematical genius of a Quong Ho. I fly to Cambridge to try to get some sort of sane129 attachment130 to life. I discover your existence. No sooner do I meet you than I’m thrown against the very woman for whose sake, as a young man, I chucked the whole of my career. And here am I, as strong as a horse. Feel that”—he tendered his arm and braced his muscle, and Godfrey gripping it proclaimed, with wonder, that it was like an iron bar—“and with a first-class working brain, and the country is crying out both for brains and muscle, and I’ll go mad if I don’t give the country my best. But at the same time, I’m just a month-old child. I’m dazed by everything. And I’ve got you and Marcelle and Quong Ho to look after. You’re all inextricably woven into the tapestry131 of my life. Mathematics and Chinese scholarship can go to the devil. Only the four of you matter——”
“Yes. Four. You, Marcelle, Quong Ho, and England.”
“That’s a tall order, sir,” smiled Godfrey. “But as for me, I’m all right. I can fend133 for myself. You can cut me out.”
“I’m damned if I do!” And to the waiter who ran up in some alarm: “Yes, tea. China tea. Gallons of it.”
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standing
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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prod
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| vt.戳，刺；刺激，激励 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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galaxy
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| n.星系；银河系；一群(杰出或著名的人物) | |
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growling
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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mingling
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apprehensive
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sketched
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sanitation
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| n.公共卫生，环境卫生，卫生设备 | |
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hearsay
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politic
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prolific
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phenomena
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quandary
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abruptly
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tragic
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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35
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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36
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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37
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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38
munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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39
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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43
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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44
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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45
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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46
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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47
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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48
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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49
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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50
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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51
jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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52
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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53
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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54
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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56
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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57
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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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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59
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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60
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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61
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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62
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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63
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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66
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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67
heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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68
decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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70
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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71
slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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75
gastronomy
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| n.美食法；美食学 | |
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76
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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79
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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81
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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82
dynamics
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| n.力学，动力学，动力，原动力；动态 | |
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83
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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84
tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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86
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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87
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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88
grudgingly
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89
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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90
derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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91
glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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93
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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94
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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95
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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96
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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97
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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98
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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99
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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100
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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101
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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102
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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103
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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104
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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105
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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106
punctiliously
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107
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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108
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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109
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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110
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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111
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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112
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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113
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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114
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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115
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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116
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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118
glossed
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| v.注解( gloss的过去式和过去分词 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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119
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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120
maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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121
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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122
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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123
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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124
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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125
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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126
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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127
consolidation
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| n.合并,巩固 | |
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128
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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129
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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130
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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131
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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132
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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133
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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134
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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