The proportions of his face were startlingly altered. The podium, below the mouth, had been insufficiently13 massive to carry the stately order of the nose; and the ratiocinative attic15 of the forehead, noble enough, no doubt, in itself, had been disproportionately high. The beard now supplied the deficiencies in the stylobate, and planted now on a firm basement of will, the order of the senses, the aerial attic of ideas, reared themselves with a more classical harmoniousness17 of proportion. It only remained for him to order from Mr. Bojanus an American coat, padded out at the shoulders as squarely and heroically as a doublet of the Cinquecento, and he would look the complete Rabelaisian man. Great eater, deep drinker, 119stout fighter, prodigious18 lover; clear thinker, creator of beauty, seeker of truth and prophet of heroic grandeurs. Fitted out with coat and beard, he could qualify for the next vacancy20 among the c?nobites of Thelema.
He removed his beard—“put his beaver21 up,” as they used to say in the fine old days of chivalry22; he would have to remember that little joke for Coleman’s benefit. He put his beaver up—ha, ha!—and stared ruefully at the far from Rabelaisian figure which now confronted him. The moustache—that was genuine enough—which had looked, in conjunction with the splendid work of art below, so fierce and manly23, served by itself, he now perceived, only droopily to emphasize his native mildness and melancholy.
It was a dismal24 affair, which might have belonged to Maurice Barrès in youth; a slanting25, flagging, sagging26 thing, such as could only grow on the lip of an assiduous Cultivator of the Me, and would become, as one grew older, ludicrously out of place on the visage of a roaring Nationalist. If it weren’t that it fitted in so splendidly with the beard, if it weren’t that it became so marvellously different in the new context he had now discovered for it, he would have shaved it off then and there.
Mournful appendage27. But now he would transform it, he would add to it its better half. Zadig’s quatrain to his mistress, when the tablet on which it was written was broken in two, became a treasonable libel on the king. So this moustache, thought Gumbril, as gingerly he applied28 the spirit gum to his cheeks and chin, this moustache which by itself serves only to betray me, becomes, as soon as it is joined to its missing context, an amorous29 arm for the conquest of the fair sex.
A little far-fetched, he decided; a little ponderous30. 120And besides, as so few people had read Zadig, not much use in conversation. Cautiously and with neat, meticulous31 finger-tips he adjusted the transformation32 to his gummed face, pressed it firmly, held it while it stuck fast. The portals of Thelema opened before him; he was free of those rich orchards33, those halls and courts, those broad staircases winding34 in noble spirals within the flanks of each of the fair round towers. And it was Coleman who had pointed35 out the way; he felt duly grateful. One last look at the Complete Man, one final and definitive36 constatation that the Mild and Melancholy one was, for the time at least, no more; and he was ready in all confidence to set out. He selected a loose, light great-coat—not that he needed a coat at all, for the day was bright and warm; but until Mr. Bojanus had done his labour of padding he would have to broaden himself out in this way, even if it did mean that he might be uncomfortably hot. To fall short of Complete Manhood for fear of a little inconvenience would be absurd. He slipped, therefore, into his light coat—a toga, Mr. Bojanus called it, a very neat toga in real West Country whipcord. He put on his broadest and blackest felt hat, for breadth above everything was what he needed to give him completeness, breadth of stature37, breadth of mind, breadth of human sympathy, breadth of smile, breadth of humour, breadth of everything. The final touch was a massive and antique Malacca cane38 belonging to his father. If he had possessed39 a bulldog, he would have taken it out on a leash40. But he did not. He issued into the sunshine, unaccompanied.
But unaccompanied he did not mean to remain for long. These warm, bright May days were wonderful days for being in love on. And to be alone on such days was like 121a malady41. It was a malady from which the Mild and Melancholy Man suffered all too frequently. And yet there were millions of superfluous42 women in the country; millions of them. Every day, in the streets, one saw thousands of them passing; and some were exquisite43, were ravishing, the only possible soul-mates. Thousands of unique soul-mates every day. The Mild and Melancholy one allowed them to pass—for ever. But to-day—to-day he was the complete and Rabelaisian man; he was bearded to the teeth; the imbecile game was at its height; there would be opportunities, and the Complete Man could know how to take them. No, he would not be unaccompanied for long.
Outside in the square the fourteen plane trees glowed in their young, unsullied green. At the end of every street the golden muslin of the haze44 hung in an unwrinkled curtain that thinned away above the sky’s gauzy horizon to transparent45 nothing against the intenser blue. The dim, conch-like murmur46 that in a city is silence seemed hazily47 to identify itself with the golden mistiness48 of summer, and against this dim, wide background the yells of the playing children detached themselves, distinct and piercing. “Beaver” they shouted, “beaver!” and, “Is it cold up there?” Full of playful menace, the Complete Man shook at them his borrowed Malacca. He accepted their prompt hail as the most favourable49 of omens50.
At the first tobacconist’s Gumbril bought the longest cigar he could find, and trailing behind him expiring blue wreaths of Cuban smoke, he made his way slowly and with an ample swagger towards the Park. It was there, under the elms, on the shores of the ornamental51 waters, that he expected to find his opportunity, that he intended—how confidently behind his Gargantuan53 mask!—to take it.
122The opportunity offered itself sooner than he expected.
He had just turned into the Queen’s Road and was sauntering past Whiteley’s with the air of one who knows that he has a right to a good place, to two or three good places even, in the sun, when he noticed just in front of him, peering intently at the New Season’s Models, a young woman whom in his mild and melancholy days he would have only hopelessly admired, but who now, to the Complete Man, seemed a destined54 and accessible prey55. She was fairly tall, but seemed taller than she actually was, by reason of her remarkable56 slenderness. Not that she looked disagreeably thin, far from it. It was a rounded slenderness. The Complete Man decided to consider her as tubular—flexible and tubular, like a section of boa constrictor, should one say. She was dressed in clothes that emphasized this serpentine57 slimness, in a close-fitting grey jacket that buttoned up to the neck and a long, narrow grey skirt that came down to her ankles. On her head was a small, sleek58 black hat, that looked almost as though it were made of metal. It was trimmed on one side with a bunch of dull golden foliage59.
Those golden leaves were the only touch of ornament52 in all the severe smoothness and unbroken tubularity of her person. As for her face, that was neither strictly60 beautiful nor strictly ugly, but combined elements of both beauty and ugliness into a whole that was unexpected, that was oddly and somehow unnaturally61 attractive.
Pretending, he too, to take an interest in the New Season’s Models, Gumbril made, squinting62 sideways over the burning tip of his cigar, an inventory63 of her features. The forehead, that was mostly hidden by her hat; it might be pensively65 and serenely67 high, it might be of that degree of 123lowness which in men is villainous, but in women is only another—a rather rustic68 one perhaps, rather canaille even, but definitely another—attraction. There was no telling. As for her eyes, they were green, and limpid69; set wide apart in her head they looked out from under heavy lids and through openings that slanted70 up towards the outer corners. Her nose was slightly aquiline71. Her mouth was full-lipped, but straight and unexpectedly wide. Her chin was small, round and firm. She had a pale skin, a little flushed over the cheek-bones, which were prominent.
On the left cheek, close under the corner of the slanting eye, she had a brown mole72. Such hair as Gumbril could see beneath her hat was pale and inconspicuously blond. When she had finished looking at the New Season’s Models she moved slowly on, halting for a moment before the travelling trunks and the fitted picnic baskets; dwelling73 for a full minute over the corsets, passing the hats, for some reason, rather contemptuously, but pausing, which seemed strange, for a long pensive64 look at the cigars and wine. As for the tennis rackets and cricket bats, the school outfits74 and the gentleman’s hosiery—she hadn’t so much as a look for one of them. But how lovingly she lingered before the boots and shoes! Her own feet, the Complete Man noticed with satisfaction, had an elegance75 of florid curves. And while other folk walked on neat’s leather she was content to be shod with nothing coarser than mottled serpent’s skin.
Slowly they drifted up Queen’s Road, lingering before every jeweller’s, every antiquarian’s, every milliner’s on the way. The stranger gave him no opportunity, and indeed, Gumbril reflected, how should she? For the imbecile game on which he was relying is a travelling piquet 124for two players, not a game of patience. No sane76 human being could play it in solitude77. He would have to make the opportunity himself.
All that was mild in him, all that was melancholy, shrank with a sickened reluctance78 from the task of breaking—with what consequences delicious and perilous79 in the future or, in the case of the deserved snub, immediately humiliating?—a silence which, by the tenth or twelfth shop window, had become quite unbearably80 significant. The Mild and Melancholy one would have drifted to the top of the road, sharing, with that community of tastes which is the basis of every happy union, her enthusiasm for brass81 candlesticks and toasting-forks, imitation Chippendale furniture, gold watch-bracelets and low-waisted summer frocks; would have drifted to the top of the road and watched her, dumbly, disappearing for ever into the green Park or along the blank pavements of the Bayswater Road; would have watched her for ever disappear and then, if the pubs had happened to be open, would have gone and ordered a glass of port, and sitting at the bar would have savoured, still dumbly, among the other drinkers, the muddy grapes of the Douro, and his own unique loneliness.
That was what the Mild and Melancholy one would have done. But the sight, as he gazed earnestly into an antiquary’s window, of his own powerful bearded face reflected in a sham82 Heppelwhite mirror, reminded him that the Mild and Melancholy one was temporarily extinct, and that it was the Complete Man who now dawdled83, smoking his long cigar, up the Queen’s Road towards the Abbey of Thelema.
He squared his shoulders; in that loose toga of Mr. Bojanus’s he looked as copious84 as Fran?ois Premier85. The time, he decided, had come.
125It was at this moment that the reflection of the stranger’s face joined itself in the little mirror, as she made a little movement away from the Old Welsh dresser in the corner, to that of his own. She looked at the spurious Heppelwhite. Their eyes met in the hospitable86 glass. Gumbril smiled. The corners of the stranger’s wide mouth seemed faintly to move; like petals87 of the magnolia, her eyelids88 came slowly down over her slanting eyes. Gumbril turned from the reflection to the reality.
“If you want to say Beaver,” he said, “you may.”
The Complete Man had made his first speech.
“I want to say nothing,” said the stranger. She spoke89 with a charming precision and distinctness, lingering with a pretty emphasis on the n of nothing. “N—n—nothing”—it sounded rather final. She turned away, she moved on.
But the Complete Man was not one to be put off by a mere90 ultimatum91. “There,” he said, falling into step with her, “now I’ve had it—the deserved snub. Honour is saved, prestige duly upheld. Now we can get on with our conversation.”
“You are v—very impertinent,” said the stranger, smiling and looking up from under the magnolia petals.
“It is in my character,” said the Complete Man. “You mustn’t blame me. One cannot escape from one’s heredity; that’s one’s share of original sin.”
“There is always grace,” said the stranger.
Gumbril caressed his beard. “True,” he replied.
“I advise you to pr—ray for it.”
His prayer, the Mild and Melancholy one reflected, had 126already been answered. The original sin in him had been self-corrected.
“Here is another antique shop,” said Gumbril. “Shall we stop and have a look at it?”
The stranger glanced at him doubtfully. But he looked quite serious. They stopped.
“How revolting this sham cottage furniture is,” Gumbril remarked. The shop, he noticed, was called ‘Ye Olde Farme House.’
The stranger, who had been on the point of saying how much she liked those lovely Old Welsh dressers, gave him her heartiest93 agreement. “So v—vulgar.”
She laughed on a descending95 chromatic96 scale. This was excitingly new. Poor Aunt Aggie97 with her Arts and Crafts, and her old English furniture. And to think she had taken them so seriously! She saw in a flash the fastidious lady that she now was—with Louis whatever-it-was furniture at home, and jewels, and young poets to tea, and real artists. In the past, when she had imagined herself entertaining real artists, it had always been among really artistic furniture. Aunt Aggie’s furniture. But now—no, oh no. This man was probably an artist. His beard; and that big black hat. But not poor; very well dressed.
“Yes, it’s funny to think that there are people who call that sort of thing artistic. One’s quite s—sorry for them,” she added, with a little hiss98.
“You have a kind heart,” said Gumbril. “I’m glad to see that.”
“Not v—very kind, I’m af—fraid.” She looked at him sideways, and significantly as the fastidious lady would have looked at one of the poets.
127“Well, kind enough, I hope,” said the Complete Man. He was delighted with his new acquaintance.
Together they disembogued into the Bayswater Road. It was here, Gumbril reflected, that the Mild and Melancholy one would dumbly have slunk away to his glass of port and his loneliness among the alien topers at the bar. But the Complete Man took his new friend by the elbow, and steered99 her into the traffic. Together they crossed the road, together entered the park.
“I still think you are v—very impertinent,” said the lady. “What induced you to follow me?”
With a single comprehensive gesture, Gumbril indicated the sun, the sky, the green trees airily glittering, the grass, the emerald lights and violet shadows of the rustic distance. “On a day like this,” he said, “how could I help it?”
“Original sin?”
“Oh,” the Complete Man modestly shook his head, “I lay no claim to originality100 in this.”
The stranger laughed. This was nearly as good as a young poet at the tea-table. She was very glad that she’d decided, after all, to put on her best suit this afternoon, even if it was a little stuffy101 for the warmth of the day. He, too, she noticed, was wearing a great-coat; which seemed rather odd.
“Is it original,” he went on, “to go and tumble stupidly like an elephant into a pitfall102, head over ears, at first sight...?”
She looked at him sideways, then closed down the magnolia petals, and smiled. This was going to be the real thing—one of those long, those interminable, or, at any rate, indefinitely renewable conversations about love; witty103, subtle, penetrating104 and bold, like the conversations in 128books, like the conversations across the tea-table between brilliant young poets and ladies of quality, grown fastidious through an excessive experience, fastidious and a little weary, but still, in their subtle way, insatiably curious.
“Suppose we sit down,” suggested Gumbril, and he pointed to a couple of green iron chairs, standing105 isolated106 in the middle of the grass close together and with their fronts slanting inwards a little towards one another in a position that suggested a confidential107 intimacy108. At the prospect109 of the conversation that, inevitably110, was about to unroll itself, he felt decidedly less elated than did his new friend. If there was anything he disliked it was conversations about love. It bored him, oh, it bored him most horribly, this minute analysis of the passion that young women always seemed to expect one, at some point or other in one’s relation with them, to make. How love alters the character for both good and bad; how physical passion need not be incompatible111 with the spiritual; how a hateful and tyrannous possessiveness can be allied112 in love with the most unselfish solicitude113 for the other party—oh, he knew all this and much more, so well, so well. And whether one can be in love with more than one person at a time, whether love can exist without jealousy114, whether pity, affection, desire can in any way replace the full and genuine passion—how often he had had to thrash out these dreary115 questions!
And all the philosophic116 speculations117 were equally familiar, all the physiological118 and anthropological119 and psychological facts. In the theory of the subject he had ceased to take any interest. Unhappily, a discussion of the theory always seemed to be an essential preliminary to the practice of it. He sighed a little wearily as he took his seat on the green 129iron chair. But then, recollecting120 that he was now the Complete Man, and that the Complete Man must do everything with a flourish and a high hand, he leaned forward and, smiling with a charming insolence121 through his beard, began:
“Tiresias, you may remember, was granted the singular privilege of living both as a man and a woman.”
Ah, this was the genuine young poet. Supporting an elbow on the back of her chair and leaning her cheek against her hand, she disposed herself to listen and, where necessary, brilliantly to interpellate; it was through half-closed eyes that she looked at him, and she smiled faintly in a manner which she knew, from experience, to be enigmatic, and though a shade haughty122, though a tiny bit mocking and ironical123, exceedingly attractive.
An hour and a half later they were driving towards an address in Bloxam Gardens, Maida Vale. The name seemed vaguely124 familiar to Gumbril. Bloxam Gardens—perhaps one of his aunts had lived there once?
“It’s a dr—dreadful little maisonnette,” she explained. “Full of awful things. We had to take it furnished. It’s so impossible to find anything now.”
Gumbril leaned back in his corner, wondering, as he studied that averted125 profile, who or what this young woman could be. She seemed to be in the obvious movement, to like the sort of things one would expect people to like; she seemed to be as highly civilized126, in Mr. Mercaptan’s rather technical sense of the term, as free of all prejudices as the great exponent127 of civilization himself.
She seemed, from her coolly dropped hints, to possess all the dangerous experience, all the assurance and easy ruthlessness of a great lady whose whole life is occupied 130in the interminable affairs of the heart, the senses and the head. But, by a strange contradiction she seemed to find her life narrow and uninteresting. She had complained in so many words that her husband misunderstood and neglected her, had complained, by implication, that she knew very few interesting people.
The maisonnette in Bloxam Gardens was certainly not very splendid—six rooms on the second and third floors of a peeling stucco house. And the furniture—decidedly Hire Purchase. And the curtains and cretonnes—brightly ‘modern,’ positively128 ‘futurist.’
“What one has to put up with in furnished flats!” The lady made a grimace129 as she ushered130 him into the sitting-room131. And while she spoke the words, she really managed to persuade herself that the furniture wasn’t theirs, that they had found all this sordid132 stuff cluttering133 up the rooms, not chosen it, oh with pains! themselves, not doggedly134 paid for it, month by month.
“Our own things,” she murmured vaguely, “are stored. In the Riviera.” It was there, under the palms, among the gaudy135 melon flowers and the croupiers that the fastidious lady had last held her salon136 of young poets. In the Riviera—that would explain, now she came to think of it, a lot of things, if explanation ever became necessary.
The Complete Man nodded sympathetically. “Other people’s tastes,” he held up his hands, they both laughed. “But why do we think of other people?” he added. And coming forward with a conquering impulsiveness137 he took both her long, fine hands in his and raised them to his bearded mouth.
She looked at him for a second, then dropped her eyelids, took back her hands. “I must go and make the tea,” she 131said. “The servants”—the plural138 was a pardonable exaggeration—“are out.”
Gallantly139, the Complete Man offered to come and help her. These scenes of intimate life had a charm all their own. But she would not allow it. “No, no,” she was very firm, “I simply forbid you. You must stay here. I won’t be a moment,” and she was gone, closing the door carefully behind her.
Left to himself, Gumbril sat down and filed his nails.
As for the young lady, she hurried along to her dingy140 little kitchen, lit the gas, put the kettle on, set out the teapot and the cups on a tray, and from the biscuit-box, where it was stored, took out the remains141 of a chocolate cake, which had already seen service at the day-before-yesterday’s tea-party. When all was ready here, she tiptoed across to her bedroom and sitting down at her dressing-table, began with hands that trembled a little with excitement to powder her nose, and heighten the colour of her cheeks. Even after the last touch had been given, she still sat there, looking at her image in the glass.
The lady and the poet, she was thinking, the grande dame142 and the brilliant young man of genius. She liked young men with beards. But he was not an artist, in spite of the beard, in spite of the hat. He was a writer of sorts. So she gathered; but he was reticent143, he was delightfully144 mysterious. She too, for that matter. The great lady slips out, masked, into the street; touches the young man’s sleeve: Come with me. She chooses, does not let herself passively be chosen. The young poet falls at her feet; she lifts him up. One is accustomed to this sort of thing.
She opened her jewel box, took out all her rings—there 132were not many of them, alas145!—and put them on. Two or three of them, on second thoughts, she took off again; they were a little, she suspected with a sudden qualm, in other people’s taste.
He was very clever, very artistic—only that seemed to be the wrong word to use; he seemed to know all the new things, all the interesting people. Perhaps he would introduce her to some of them. And he was so much at ease behind his knowledge, so well assured. But for her part, she felt pretty certain, she had made no stupid mistakes. She too had been, had looked at any rate—which was the important thing—very much at ease.
She liked young men with beards. They looked so Russian. Catherine of Russia had been one of the great ladies with caprices. Masked in the streets. Young poet, come with me. Or even, Young butcher’s boy. But that, no, that was going too far, too low. Still, life, life—it was there to be lived—life—to be enjoyed. And now, and now? She was still wondering what would happen next, when the kettle, which was one of those funny ones which whistle when they come to the boil, began, fitfully, at first, then, under full steam, unflaggingly, to sound its mournful, other-worldly note. She sighed and bestirred herself to attend to it.
“Let me help you.” Gumbril jumped up as she came into the room. “What can I do?” He hovered146 rather ineptly147 round her.
The lady put down her tray on the little table. “N—nothing,” she said.
“N—nothing?” he imitated her with a playful mockery. “Am I good for n—nothing at all?” He took one of her hands and kissed it.
133“Nothing that’s of the l—least importance.” She sat down and began to pour out the tea.
The Complete Man also sat down. “So to adore at first sight,” he asked, “is not of the l—least importance?”
She shook her head, smiled, raised and lowered her eyelids. One was so well accustomed to this sort of thing; it had no importance. “Sugar?” she asked. The young poet was safely there, sparkling across the tea-table. He offered love and she, with the easy heartlessness of one who is so well accustomed to this sort of thing, offered him sugar.
He nodded. “Please. But if it’s of no importance to you,” he went on, “then I’ll go away at once.”
The lady laughed her section of a descending chromatic scale. “Oh no, you won’t,” she said. “You can’t.” And she felt that the grande dame had made a very fine stroke.
“Quite right,” the Complete Man replied; “I couldn’t.” He stirred his tea. “But who are you,” he looked up at her suddenly, “you devilish female?” He was genuinely anxious to know; and besides, he was paying her a very pretty compliment. “What do you do with your dangerous existence?”
“I enjoy life,” she said. “I think one ought to enjoy life. Don’t you? I think it’s one’s first duty.” She became quite grave. “One ought to enjoy every moment of it,” she said. “Oh, passionately148, adventurously149, newly, excitingly, uniquely.”
The Complete Man laughed. “A conscientious150 hedonist. I see.”
She felt uncomfortably that the fastidious lady had not quite lived up to her character. She had spoken more like a young woman who finds life too dull and daily, and would 134like to get on to the cinema. “I am very conscientious,” she said, making significant play with the magnolia petals and smiling her riddling151 smile. She must retrieve152 the Great Catherine’s reputation.
“I could see that from the first,” mocked the Complete Man with a triumphant153 insolence. “Conscience doth make cowards of us all.”
The fastidious lady only contemptuously smiled. “Have a little chocolate cake,” she suggested. Her heart was beating. She wondered, she wondered.
There was a long silence. Gumbril finished his chocolate cake, gloomily drank his tea and did not speak. He found, all at once, that he had nothing to say. His jovial confidence seemed, for the moment, to have deserted154 him. He was only the Mild and Melancholy one foolishly disguised as a Complete Man; a sheep in beaver’s clothing. He entrenched155 himself behind his formidable silence and waited; waited, at first, sitting in his chair, then, when this total inactivity became unbearable156, striding about the room.
She looked at him, for all her air of serene66 composure, with a certain disquiet157. What on earth was he up to now? What could he be thinking about? Frowning like that, he looked like a young Jupiter, bearded and burly (though not, she noticed, quite so burly as he had appeared in his overcoat) making ready to throw a thunderbolt. Perhaps he was thinking of her—suspecting her, seeing through the fastidious lady and feeling angry at her attempted deception158. Or perhaps he was bored with her, perhaps he was wanting to go away. Well, let him go; she didn’t mind. Or perhaps he was just made like that—a moody159 young poet; that seemed, on the whole, the most likely explanation; 135it was also the most pleasing and romantic. She waited. They both waited.
Gumbril looked at her and was put to shame by the spectacle of her quiet serenity160. He must do something, he told himself; he must recover the Complete Man’s lost morale161. Desperately162 he came to a halt in front of the one decent picture hanging on the walls. It was an eighteenth-century engraving163 of Raphael’s ‘Transfiguration’—better, he always thought, in black and white than in its bleakly-coloured original.
“That’s a nice engraving,” he said. “Very nice.” The mere fact of having uttered at all was a great comfort to him, a real relief.
“Yes,” she said, “That belongs to me. I found it in a second-hand164 shop, not far from here.”
“Photography,” he pronounced, with that temporary earnestness which made him seem an enthusiast165 about everything, “is a mixed blessing166. It has made it possible to reproduce pictures so easily and cheaply, that all the bad artists who were well occupied in the past, making engravings of good men’s paintings, are now free to do bad original work of their own.” All this was terribly impersonal167, he told himself, terribly off the point. He was losing ground. He must do something drastic to win it back. But what?
She came to his rescue. “I bought another at the same time,” she said. “‘The Last Communion of St. Jerome,’ by—who is it? I forget.”
“Ah, you mean Domenichino’s ‘St. Jerome’?” The Complete Man was afloat again. “Poussin’s favourite picture. Mine too, very nearly. I’d like to see that.”
“It’s in my room, I’m afraid. But if you don’t mind.”
136He bowed. “If you don’t.”
She smiled graciously to him and got up. “This way,” she said, and opened the door.
“It’s a lovely picture,” Gumbril went on, loquaciously168 now, behind her, as they walked down the dark corridor. “And besides, I have a sentimental169 attachment170 to it. There used to be a copy of an engraving of it at home, when I was a child. And I remember wondering and wondering—oh, it went on for years—every time I saw the picture; wondering why on earth that old bishop171 (for I did know it was a bishop) should be handing the naked old man a five-shilling piece.”
She opened a door; they were in her very pink room. Grave in its solemn and subtly harmonious16 beauty, the picture hung over the mantelpiece, hung there, among the photographs of the little friends of her own age, like some strange object from another world. From within that chipped gilt172 frame all the beauty, all the grandeur19 of religion looked darkly out upon the pink room. The little friends of her own age, all deliciously nubile173, sweetly smiled, turned up their eyes, clasped Persian cats or stood jauntily174, feet apart, hand in the breeches pocket of the land-girl’s uniform; the pink roses on the wallpaper, the pink and white curtains, the pink bed, the strawberry-coloured carpet, filled all the air with the rosy175 reflections of nakedness and life.
And utterly176 remote, absorbed in their grave, solemn ecstasy177, the robed and mitred priest held out, the dying saint yearningly178 received, the body of the Son of God. The ministrants looked gravely on, the little angels looped in the air above a gravely triumphant festoon, the lion slept at the saint’s feet, and through the arch beyond, the 137eye travelled out over a quiet country of dark trees and hills.
“There it is,” she waved towards the mantelpiece.
But Gumbril had taken it all in long ago. “You see what I mean by the five-shilling piece.” And stepping up to the picture, he pointed to the round bright wafer which the priest holds in his hand and whose averted disk is like the essential sun at the centre of the picture’s harmonious universe. “Those were the days of five-shilling pieces,” he went on. “You’re probably too young to remember those large, lovely things. They came my way occasionally, and consecrated179 wafers didn’t. So you can understand how much the picture puzzled me. A bishop giving a naked old man five shillings in a church, with angels fluttering overhead, and a lion sleeping in the foreground. It was obscure, it was horribly obscure.” He turned away from the picture and confronted his hostess, who was standing a little way behind him smiling enigmatically and invitingly181.
“Obscure,” he repeated. “But so is everything. So is life in general. And you,” he stepped towards her, “you in particular.”
“Am I?” she lifted her limpid eyes at him. Oh, how her heart was beating, how hard it was to be the fastidious lady, calmly satisfying her caprice. How difficult it was to be accustomed to this sort of thing. What was going to happen next?
What happened next was that the Complete Man came still closer, put his arms round her, as though he were inviting180 her to the fox-trot, and began kissing her with a startling violence. His beard tickled182 her neck; shivering a little, she brought down the magnolia petals across her 138eyes. The Complete Man lifted her up, walked across the room carrying the fastidious lady in his arms and deposited her on the rosy catafalque of the bed. Lying there with her eyes shut, she did her best to pretend she was dead.
Gumbril had looked at his wrist watch and found that it was six o’clock. Already? He prepared himself to take his departure. Wrapped in a pink kimono, she came out into the hall to wish him farewell.
“When shall I see you again, Rosie?” He had learnt that her name was Rosie.
She had recovered her great lady’s equanimity183 and detachment, and was able to shrug184 her shoulders and smile. “How should I know?” she asked, implying that she could not foresee what her caprice might be an hour hence.
“May I write then, and ask one of these days if you do know?”
She put her head on one side and raised her eyebrows185, doubtfully. At last nodded. “Yes, you can write,” she permitted.
“Good,” said the Complete Man, and picked up his wide hat. She held out her hand to him with stateliness, and with a formal gallantry he kissed it. He was just closing the front door behind him, when he remembered something. He turned round. “I say,” he called after the retreating pink kimono. “It’s rather absurd. But how can I write? I don’t know your name. I can’t just address it ‘Rosie’”
The great lady laughed delightedly. This had the real capriccio flavour. “Wait,” she said, and she ran into the sitting-room. She was back again in a moment with an oblong of pasteboard. “There,” she said, and dropped 139it into his great-coat pocket. Then blowing a kiss she was gone.
The Complete Man closed the door and descended186 the stairs. Well, well, he said to himself; well, well. He put his hand in his coat pocket and took out the card. In the dim light of the staircase he read the name on it with some difficulty. Mrs. James—but no, but no. He read again, straining his eyes; there was no question of it. Mrs. James Shearwater.
Mrs. James Shearwater.
That was why he had vaguely known the name of Bloxam Gardens.
Mrs. James Shear——. Step after step he descended, ponderously187. “Good Lord,” he said out loud. “Good Lord.”
But why had he never seen her? Why did Shearwater never produce her? Now he came to think of it, he hardly ever spoke of her.
Why had she said the flat wasn’t theirs? It was; he had heard Shearwater talk about it.
Did she make a habit of this sort of thing!
Could Shearwater be wholly unaware188 of what she was really like? But, for that matter, what was she really like?
He was half-way down the last flight, when with a rattle189 and a squeak190 of hinges the door of the house, which was only separated by a short lobby from the foot of the stairs, opened, revealing, on the doorstep, Shearwater and a friend, eagerly talking.
“... I take my rabbit,” the friend was saying—he was a young man with dark, protruding191 eyes, and staring, doggy nostrils192; very eager, lively and loud. “I take my rabbit 140and I inject into it the solution of eyes, pulped193 eyes of another dead rabbit. You see?”
Gumbril’s first instinct was to rush up the stairs and hide in the first likely-looking corner. But he pulled himself together at once. He was a Complete Man, and Complete Men do not hide; moreover, he was sufficiently14 disguised to be quite unrecognizable. He stood where he was, and listened to the conversation.
“The rabbit,” continued the young man, and with his bright eyes and staring, sniffing194 nose, he looked like a poacher’s terrier ready to go barking after the first white tail that passed his way; “the rabbit naturally develops the appropriate resistance, develops a specific anti-eye to protect itself. I then take some of its anti-eye serum195 and inject it into my female rabbit; I then immediately breed from her.” He paused.
“Well?” asked Shearwater, in his slow, ponderous way. He lifted his great round head inquiringly and looked at the doggy young man from under his bushy eyebrows.
The doggy young man smiled triumphantly196. “The young ones,” he said, emphasizing his words by striking his right fist against the extended palm of his left hand, “the young ones are born with defective197 sight.”
Thoughtfully Shearwater pulled at his formidable moustache. “H’m,” he said slowly. “Very remarkable.”
“You realize the full significance of it?” asked the young man. “We seem to be effecting the germ-plasm directly. We have found a way of making acquired characteristics....”
“Pardon me,” said Gumbril. He had decided that it was time to be gone. He ran down the stairs and across the tiled hall, he pushed his way firmly but politely between the talkers.
141“... heritable,” continued the young man, imperturbably198 eager, speaking through and over and round the obstacle.
“Damn!” said Shearwater. The Complete Man had trodden on his toe. “Sorry,” he added, absent-mindedly apologizing for the injury he had received.
Gumbril hurried off along the street. “If we really have found out a technique for influencing the germ-plasm directly ...” he heard the doggy young man saying; but he was already too far away to catch the rest of the sentence. There are many ways, he reflected, of spending an afternoon.
The doggy young man refused to come in, he had to get in his game of tennis before dinner. Shearwater climbed the stairs alone. He was taking off his hat in the little hall of his own apartment, when Rosie came out of the sitting-room with a trayful of tea-things.
“Well?” he asked, kissing her affectionately on the forehead. “Well? People to tea?”
“Only one,” Rosie replied. “I’ll go and make you a fresh cup.”
Shearwater sat down in the sitting-room. He had brought home with him from the library the fifteenth volume of the Biochemical Journal. There was something in it he wanted to look up. He turned over the pages. Ah, here it was. He began reading. Rosie came back again.
“Here’s your tea,” she said.
He thanked her without looking up. The tea grew cold on the little table at his side.
142Lying on the sofa, Rosie pondered and remembered. Had the events of the afternoon, she asked herself, really happened? They seemed very improbable and remote, now, in this studious silence. She couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. Was it only this? So simple and obvious? She tried to work herself up into a more exalted201 mood. She even tried to feel guilty; but there she failed completely. She tried to feel rapturous; but without much more success. Still, he certainly had been a most extraordinary man. Such impudence202, and at the same time such delicacy203 and tact204.
It was a pity she couldn’t afford to change the furniture. She saw now that it wouldn’t do at all. She would go and tell Aunt Aggie about the dreadful middle-classness of her Art and Craftiness205.
She ought to have an Empire chaise longue. Like Madame Récamier. She could see herself lying there, dispensing206 tea. “Like a delicious pink snake.” He had called her that.
Well, really, now she came to think of it all again, it had been too queer, too queer.
“What’s a hedonist?” she suddenly asked.
Shearwater looked up from the Journal of Biochemistry. “What?” he said.
“A hedonist.”
“A man who holds that the end of life is pleasure.”
A ‘conscientious hedonist’—ah, that was good.
“This tea is cold,” Shearwater remarked.
“You should have drunk it before,” she said. The silence renewed and prolonged itself.
Rosie was getting much better, Shearwater reflected, as he washed his hands before supper, about not interrupting 143him when he was busy. This evening she had really not disturbed him at all, or at most only once, and that not seriously. There had been times in the past when the child had really made life almost impossible. There were those months at the beginning of their married life, when she had thought she would like to study physiology207 herself and be a help to him. He remembered the hours he had spent trying to teach her elementary facts about the chromosomes208. It had been a great relief when she abandoned the attempt. He had suggested she should go in for stencilling209 patterns on Government linen210. Such pretty curtains and things one could make like that. But she hadn’t taken very kindly211 to the idea. There had followed a long period when she seemed to have nothing to do but prevent him from doing anything. Ringing him up at the laboratory, invading his study, sitting on his knee, or throwing her arms round his neck, or pulling his hair, or asking ridiculous questions when he was trying to work.
Shearwater flattered himself that he had been extremely patient. He had never got cross. He had just gone on as though she weren’t there. As though she weren’t there.
“Hurry up,” he heard her calling. “The soup’s getting cold.”
“Coming,” he shouted back, and began to dry his large, blunt hands.
She seemed to have been improving lately. And to-night, to-night she had been a model of non-existence.
He came striding heavily into the dining-room. Rosie was sitting at the head of the table, ladling out the soup. With her left hand she held back the flowing pink sleeve of her kimono so that it should not trail in the plates or the 144tureen. Her bare arm showed white and pearly through the steam of lentils.
How pretty she was! He could not resist the temptation, but coming up behind her bent212 down and kissed her, rather clumsily, on the back of her neck.
Rosie drew away from him. “Really, Jim,” she said, disapprovingly213. “At meal-times!” The fastidious lady had to draw the line at these ill-timed, tumbling familiarities.
“And what about work-times?” Shearwater asked laughing. “Still, you were wonderful this evening, Rosie, quite wonderful.” He sat down and began eating his soup. “Not a sound all the time I was reading; or, at any rate, only one sound, so far as I remember.”
The great lady said nothing, but only smiled—a little contemptuously and with a touch of pity. She pushed away the plate of soup unfinished and planted her elbows on the table. Slipping her hands under the sleeves of her kimono, she began, lightly, delicately, with the tips of her fingers, to caress4 her own arms.
How smooth they were, how soft and warm and how secret under the sleeves. And all her body was as smooth and warm, was as soft and secret, still more secret beneath the pink folds. Like a warm serpent hidden away, secretly, secretly.
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2
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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3
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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8
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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harmoniousness
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| 和谐 | |
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18
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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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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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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30
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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32
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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41
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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42
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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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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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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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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hazily
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| ad. vaguely, not clear | |
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mistiness
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| n.雾，模糊，不清楚 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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50
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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gargantuan
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| adj.巨大的，庞大的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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56
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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57
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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58
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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62
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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63
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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64
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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73
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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74
outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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81
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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82
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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83
dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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87
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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88
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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89
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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90
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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91
ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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92
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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93
heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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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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95
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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96
chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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97
aggie
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| n.农校，农科大学生 | |
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98
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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99
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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100
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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101
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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102
pitfall
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| n.隐患，易犯的错误；陷阱，圈套 | |
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103
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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104
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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105
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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106
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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107
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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108
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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109
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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110
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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111
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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112
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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113
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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114
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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115
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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116
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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117
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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118
physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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119
anthropological
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| adj.人类学的 | |
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120
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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121
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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122
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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123
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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124
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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125
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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126
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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127
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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128
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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129
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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130
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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132
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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133
cluttering
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的现在分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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134
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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135
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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136
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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137
impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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138
plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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139
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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140
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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141
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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142
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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143
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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144
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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145
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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146
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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147
ineptly
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| adv. 不适当地，无能地 | |
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148
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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149
adventurously
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| adv.爱冒险地 | |
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150
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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151
riddling
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| adj.谜一样的，解谜的n.筛选 | |
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152
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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153
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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154
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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155
entrenched
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| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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156
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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157
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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158
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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159
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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160
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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161
morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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162
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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163
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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164
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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165
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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166
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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167
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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168
loquaciously
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169
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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170
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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171
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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172
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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173
nubile
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| adj.结婚期的 | |
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174
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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175
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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176
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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177
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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178
yearningly
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| 怀念地，思慕地，同情地； 渴 | |
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179
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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180
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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181
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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182
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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183
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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184
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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185
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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186
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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187
ponderously
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188
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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189
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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190
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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191
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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192
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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193
pulped
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| 水果的肉质部分( pulp的过去式和过去分词 )； 果肉； 纸浆； 低级书刊 | |
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194
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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195
serum
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| n.浆液，血清，乳浆 | |
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196
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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197
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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198
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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199
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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200
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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201
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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202
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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203
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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204
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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205
craftiness
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| 狡猾，狡诈 | |
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206
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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207
physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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208
chromosomes
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| n.染色体( chromosome的名词复数 ) | |
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209
stencilling
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| v.用模板印（文字或图案）( stencil的现在分词 )；型版 | |
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210
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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211
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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212
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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213
disapprovingly
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| adv.不以为然地，不赞成地，非难地 | |
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