“Where are you going?”
Gurdy recognized a quiet character who came to luncheons10 now and then. He said, “H’lo, Mr. Frohman,” dutifully and looked about for the theatre. The stooping man detained him gravely.
“I thought you weren’t old enough for shows.”
“I’m looking for Mark.”
“Where’s that?”
Gurdy stared past the pointing stick and saw a cream face of columns and windows. He saw the stone above a ring of heads. People were gaping12 at his calm acquaintance as if this plump, tired man was a kicking horse. He remembered civility and asked, “How’s your rheumatism13?”
“Better,” said Mr. Frohman and limped away.
Gurdy pushed scornfully through the gapers[49] and trotted15 into the white vestibule of the theatre where men were arranging flowers—horseshoes of orchids17, ugly and damp, roses in all tints18, lumps of unknown bloom on standards wrapped in silver foil. A redhaired, hatless youth listed the cards dangling19 from these treasures and told Gurdy to go to hell when Gurdy asked for his uncle but another man nodded to stairs of yellow, slick marble. On the landing Gurdy found a door stencilled20 in gold, “Carlson & Walling.” The door opened into a room hung with photographs where Gurdy saw Mark sitting on a table, surrounded by men. Mr. Carlson, already sheathed21 in winter furs, bullied22 a carpenter who corrected the lower shelf of a bookcase. Gurdy stood wondering at the furious shades of neckties and the grey hard hats which Miss Converse thought vulgar.
“My God,” said Carlson, “Mark, look at that comin’ in!”
Mark groaned23. He had a compact with Mrs. Bernamer that the borrowed boy shouldn’t enter a theatre until he was twelve. He was tall enough for twelve but he was only nine. He stayed in the doorway24, studying the red walls of the room, his white socks far apart and his hands thrust into the pockets of his short, loose breeches. The callers stared at the tough legs brown from summer on the farm. The boy’s[50] one patent beauty, his soft, pale hair, was hidden by his English sailor cap and his white blouse was spotted26 with ink stains. But the men grinned and chuckled, admiringly. Gurdy made no sound when Carlson set him on the top of the bookcase but gazed contemptuously at the crowding men and let himself be petted.
“When d’you inaugurate, Mark?”
“Eight fifteen, when you’ll be in bed, sonny.”
Gurdy drawled, “I don’t get to bed till quarter of nine and you ought to know that by this time.” He frowned, partly closing his dark blue eyes, as the men laughed. “What are all those flowers for?”
A man in a corner lifted his white face from a book and whispered, “Those are gifts the Greeks brought.” This caused stillness, then unpleasing chuckles27. Gurdy climbed down from the bookcase and went to talk to Mr. Fitch. They talked of French lessons and the vagaries28 of governesses. The other callers complimented Mark on the boy’s good looks. The flattery was soothing29 after the strain of the last rehearsal30. Mark knew it for flattery. Gurdy’s face was too long, his sober mouth too wide and his jaw32 prematurely33 square. But the compliments were the due of a successful actor turned manager. He sat for a little watching Mr. Fitch lazily chat with the boy as though he were a grown man.[51] On the playwright34’s warning he had lately published a careful interview announcing Gurdy and Margot as adopted children and his relationship to them. But people still probably reported Gurdy an illegitimate son and Margot his daughter by Cora Boyle. Mark sighed and took Gurdy down through the flowers to see the cream and gold play house where men were squirting perfume from syringes along the red aisles36, killing37 the smell of paint. He let Gurdy have a syringe and went into the vestibule. The redhaired clerk listing the gifts of other managers handed him the card wet from its journey in a ball of pink roses.
“Mrs. Cosmo Rand.... Who the devil’s Mrs. Cosmo Rand, Billy?”
The clerk scratched his ear and grinned. “You’d ought to know, sir.”
“But I don’t. Cosmo Rand? Heard of him. Loeffler’s got him in something. Who’s she?”
“Miss Cora Boyle,” said the clerk and strolled off to insult a messenger bringing in more flowers.
Mark had a curious, disheartening shock. He didn’t bow to Cora Boyle on the street. What right had she to send him flowers? It must be a passing rudeness. She might remember that he disliked pink roses. Mark rested on the ledge38 of the box office, brooding. But she might mean to be pleasant. Her manager, Loeffler, was on bad[52] terms with Carlson. This might be a dictated39, indirect peace offering. Mark patted the florid carved stone of the ledge and thought. Cora’s new play wasn’t a success. The reviews had been tart40. She might be tired of Loeffler. Mark was perplexed41 but the hunt for motives42 always wearied him. A scarlet43 petticoat went by outside the vestibule and led off his mind. He bade his treasurer44 telephone for the motor and stood joking with the man through the box office window until a flat stop in the noise behind him made Mark turn his head. The florists45 and clerks were motionless, regarding the street. A coupé had stopped. A footman was helping46 a woman and a tumult47 of varied48 flowers to the sidewalk. She came toward the doors gallantly50, her face quite hidden in the enormous bouquet51 but the treasurer said, “By gee52, I’d know her in hell, by her walk,” and chuckled. She tripped on the sill and screamed gaily53 to Mark, “Au s’ cours!”
Mark jumped to catch the sheaf of yellow roses. Miss Held waved her grey gloves wide and dipped her chin. “Je t’ apporte une gerbe vu que t’es toujours bon enfant, Marc Antoine! And ’ow does Beatriz get along to teach you French?”
“Pretty fair. Haven’t had much time lately. Thought you’d taken your show on the road, Anna?”
“Nex’ week.” Up the staircase some one[53] began to whistle “La Petite Tonkinoise.” The little woman vibrated inside the grey case of her lacy gown and pursed her lips. “Oh, but I am sick of that tune54! Make him stop.” The whistler heard and ceased. Miss Held swayed to and fro among the flowers, noting cards. She adopted a huge orchid16 for her waist and smiled down at it. A dozen grins woke in the collecting crowd. Mark was aware of upholsterers oozing55 from the theatre. Miss Held hummed from gift to gift, murmuring names—“Le Moyne.... ton institutrice.... Ce bon vieux David.... Nice lilies.” She moved in a succession of swift steps that seemed balanced leaps. One of the florist’s girls sighed a positive sob31 of envy. The curving body and the embellished56 eyes kept the crowd still. The soft gloves drooped57 on the hard lustre58 of the stirring arms. Mark wondered at her cool, sardonic59 mastery of attention. She was bored, unwell and her frock was nothing new. She was Anna Held and the people were edging in from the sidewalk to look at her.
“Like to see the house, Anna?”
“Oh, no. I very well know what that would be. All red, and gold fishes on the ceiling, eh? No. I must go away.” She strolled off toward her carriage, chattering60 sudden French which Mark did not understand. He heard an immense discussion surge up in the vestibule as he shut the[54] coupé door, walked through it into the theatre where two upholsterers were quarrelling over the age of the paragon61 and where Mark bumped against a man in brown who seemed to inspect the gold dolphins of the vault62.
“Clumsy,” said the man, briskly.
“Didn’t see you, sir.”
“I meant the decoration.” The man flicked63 a hand at the ceiling and the red boxes, “Like Augustin Daly’s first house but much worse. We should have passed that. Gilt64. It’s the scortum ante mortum in architecture.” He jammed a cigarette between the straight lips of his flushed face and went on in a rattle65 of dry syllables66. “Some one should write a monograph67 on gold paint and the theatrical68 temperament69. Plush and passion. Stigmata.... Sous un balcon doré.... Can you give me a match?... Where’s Carlson’s office?” He bustled70 out of the foyer.
Mark wearily tore Cora Boyle’s card in his tanned fingers and nodded. The stranger was right. This new theatre was stale. The gold sparkled stupidly. The shades of velvet71 were afflicting72. But Carlson liked it. Mark sighed and thought, rather sadly, that his patron’s whole concept of the trade was vulgar and outworn like this gaudy73 expense. Red velvet, heavy gold, bright lamps—the trappings of his apprenticeship74.[55] Old actors told Mark that this was a variant75 of the first Daly theatre. The stranger was right, then. Mark wondered and went upstairs to the office but the flushed man was gone.
“That feller Huneker was in tryin’ to get me to hire some orchestra leader,” Carlson said.
“But I thought Huneker was a young man,” Mark answered.
Mr. Fitch whispered from his corner, “He hasn’t any particular age. What was that riot downstairs, Mark?”
“Anna Held dropped in and left some flowers. She ain’t lookin’ well.”
The playwright closed his magazine and lifted himself from the chair, assuming his strange furry76 hat. “We have just so much vitality77. She’s losing hers. But if she died tomorrow it would make almost as much noise as killing a president. And that’s quite right. Presidents never make any one feel sinful. Good night.”
Carlson asked, “You’re comin’ tonight, Clyde.”
“Not feeling right, thanks.”
Mark followed the bent78 back down the stairs. Fitch was stopped by a lounger at the doors, loaned the old fellow ten dollars and passed, unobtrusive, along Forty Fifth Street. He went shadowlike in his vivid dress. Liking79 the man, Mark frowned. The exhausted80 courtesy, the slow voice always left him puzzled; it was as[56] though the playwright’s prosperity kept within it a dead core of something pained, as if the ghost of an old hunger somehow lived on under the coloured superfluity.
Mark’s motor arrived outside. He went to whistle Gurdy up from an investigation81 of the orchestra pit. All the bulbs burned about the house. For a second Mark liked the place then the gilt and the mulberry hangings bothered him. He chased Gurdy up an aisle35 to the vestibule. The treasurer slipped from the box office to say, “Young Rand just called up. I said you wasn’t here.”
“Who?”
“Cora Boyle’s new husband. That English kid.”
Mark shrugged82 and shoved Gurdy into the dull blue limousine83 at the curb84. The motor took him away from the theatre and away from several beckoning85 hands on the sidewalk. His shift to managership had changed the fashion of salutes86. People now beckoned87 him with a posture88 of confidential89 affection and earnestness. They had friends to recommend, deep suggestions. Carlson had warned him, “Mind, you’re a kid with a pocketful of candy, now. You’ve stopped bein’ just one of the gang. Better ride in cabs if you want to get anyplace.” Well, the motor, with its adorable slippery blue crust, kept people at a distance.[57] Mark wound an arm about Gurdy and pulled himself into a corner of the seat. The car was hampered90 by a dilatory91 van that lurched ahead of its hood92. The chauffeur93 cursed in Canadian French and a messenger boy on the van’s tail cursed back, joyously94 foul95, emptily shooting accusations96 of all sins in a sweet, sexless howl that pierced the glass about Mark and made him grin, absently amused.
“He’s mad,” said Gurdy, dispassionately.
“No. He’s just talking, son.”
“Huh,” Gurdy grunted99, trying to match the words with ordinary conversation. This messenger boy was plainly an accomplished100 fellow. The van rolled off over Broadway in a shock of light and dust. Gurdy saw “Red Winter” on a poster and asked, “Is this Red Winter a good play, Mark?”
“Pretty fair, honey.”
“Well, can I come to it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Too dirty,” Mark said, then, “All about killin’ folks, son.”
Gurdy argued, “Well, Lohengrin’s all about killing people and Miss Converse took me to that and it was in Dutch.”
“German, sonny.”
“I like French better’n German,” Gurdy[58] yawned, waving a leg in the air and went on, “I think Broadway’s ugly.”
Yet Carlson really liked to stroll on Broadway and Cora Boyle had often led Mark for dusty hours through this complexity102 of hesitant, garrulous103 people, along these sidewalks where there was nothing to be seen. He rubbed his jaw and thought of Paris, viewed last summer, of the long, swooping104 street at Winchester gilt in an afterglow. Oh, after dark Broadway was tolerable! Then the revolving105 people were shapes of no consequence and, with a little mist, these lights were aqueous, flotillas of shimmering106 points on a hovering107, uncertain vastness. Now, the roadway was a dappled smear108 of bodies wheeled and bodies shod. The sidewalks writhed109, unseemly. But Cora Boyle liked it. The pretty, black haired dancer just then lodged110 at Mark’s cost had rooms overlooking the new width above Forty Second Street. And she liked that.... And she liked the scenery of “Red Winter.” Poor stuff, he thought. He cursed scene painters. Charles Frohman had heard of a fellow who’d studied the art in Berlin and made astonishing sets. He must telephone Frohman and get the man’s name. He was tired. “Red Winter” had tired him. The leading woman had a way of[59] saying “California” through her nose that had vexed111 him all week. A poor play. His head was full of jagged swift ideas, of memories; Eddie Bernamer milking a young cow against a sulphur wall and laughing when Mark tried to sketch112 him on the fly leaf of an algebra113; Cora Boyle swaggering into Rector’s in a blue dress; Clyde Fitch telling little Margaret that her name was Margot; Stanford White shouting with laughter because Mark softened114 the ch of “architecture.” Why hadn’t they given White a billion dollars and let him build the whole city into charms of tranquil115, columnar symmetry?... Gurdy knew that his uncle was oppressed. When Mark thought hard he stroked the scar on his jaw. Gurdy wanted to talk, now, and tossed a leg over Mark’s black, rocky knee.
“What’re you thinkin’ about, Mark?”
“Just bosh. What’s Margot been doing all day?”
“Havin’ a bellyache.”
That terrified Mark. He sweated suddenly and called through the tube bidding the driver hurry. Spinal116 meningitis, he read, began with nausea117. But when he ran into the panelled library of his house Margot was playing with her largest doll and the angular governess assured him, in simple French, that a pill had set things right. Margot lifted her black eyes and said,[60] rubbing her stomach, “I was ill, papa,” in her leisurely118 way.
“Ate breakfast too fast,” Gurdy said, in grim displeasure, watching Mark double his lean height and begin to cuddle Margot.
Margot stared at her cousin with an aggrieved119, brief pout120 and then wound herself into Mark’s lap. The large doll was named Aunt Sadie for Mrs. Bernamer. Margot said, “Miss Converse fixed121 Aunt Sadie’s drawers, papa,” and her brown face rippled122 as she displayed three stitches. Then she righted the doll and gazed at Mark devotedly123, solemnly, preening124 her starched125 skirt of pink linen126. Pink went with her black hair and her tawny127 skin. Mark touched a roaming mesh128 of her hair and her face rippled once more. Her skin had this amber129 haze130 like the water of a pool in the pine forest behind the farm. In that pool he had bathed with her father through endless afternoons, idling on until other boys lagged off and the shadows were ink on the crumbled131 ocher clay of the margin132 where pink boneset grew. And now Joe was dead and his blackhaired wife was dead ... an unskilled cook before marriage, half Irish, half Italian, a good, sleepy woman who ate with her knife and wore a chaplet blessed for her Roman mother by some Pope. Margot would never know them. He kissed her[61] hair. She was this warm bubble enclosed in his arms.
“Love me any, sister?”
“’Course,” said Margot.
Gurdy snorted and stalked away. Mark talked to the stiff governess and patted Margot. Miss Converse sewed and chatted about Conrad’s novels, then getting fashionable. She assented133, “Very interesting. Romantic, of course. I dare say the colour attracts you.”
“Of course,” said Mark, “and what if they are romantic?”
She had some vague objection. If she bored him, Mark was still grateful that she hadn’t tried to marry him. She was necessary to the training of the children but her buff, bulky face wasn’t alluring134 and her gowns hurt him by a prevalence of mole135 embroidery136 and rumpled137 lace. She was a gentlewoman, wonderfully learned and obliging about his pet airs on the piano. Mark talked and wished that he could escape, like Gurdy who went to practice handsprings in the white hall and slid downstairs at the note of the doorbell.
Gurdy slid along the handrail of black wood so admired by callers and jumped for the dining room which had doors of glass coated in blue silk. These doors opened into the drawing room which Gurdy despised for its furniture all black[62] and silver and its hangings of cloudy tapestry138, impossibly noiseless when one bounced balls against them. Yet people called it a lovely room. And now, peering through a rift139 of the blue silk Gurdy saw the butler turn a visitor into this space and the visitor looked about with brown eyes, seeming to admire. Gurdy speculated and decided140 that the slight man was an actor come to talk to Mark about a part. His hair curled, his overcoat clung to his middle neatly141, his white gaiters were unspotted, his pale moustache didn’t overhang his little mouth. He was visibly an actor. Gurdy had examined many through this spyhole. And like many the fellow went to glance at a circular mirror above the cabinet with tiny doors which Miss Converse called “Siennese.” As Mark’s feet descended142, the man straightened himself and began a smile. Gurdy listened to the jar of his high voice against Mark’s fuller drawl.
“Mr. Rand?”
“Yes. Don’t think we’ve ever met. Daresay you know who I am and all that?”
“Yes,” said Mark.
Gurdy noted the long pause. He held that actors were a talkative lot. Mr. Rand worked with his moustache an indefinite time before he spoke143 again.
Mark said, “I see,” wondering how old the man was. The moustache had an appearance of soft youth. He smiled, wanting Cora’s third husband to be at ease, and nodded to a chair.
“Oh, thanks no. Mrs. Rand wants to know if you’d mind meeting her. At her hotel, for instance?”
“I don’t mind at all,” Mark lied, “Glad to. Any time.”
“Then she may let you know? Thanks ever so. Good luck to your play tonight,” said the young man and walked out gracefully145.
Gurdy came through the glass doors and asked, “Who’s he?” Mark lifted the pliant146, hard body in the air. He fancied that Gurdy must feel something odd, here.
“How old would you say he was, darling?”
“Dunno. Who’s Mrs. Rand?”
“An actress.”
“Put me down,” said Gurdy, “My pants are comin’ off.”
Mark breathed comfortably, helped the boy on his knee tighten147 the white trousers and passed into dotage148. Eddie Bernamer and Joe Walling had begotten149 these bodies. The fact mattered nothing. Mark was a father. He had possession. When things went wrong he could come home to[64] gloat over Margot and Gurdy. He promised, “I shan’t be busy now for a week. We’ll ride in the Park and feed the squirrels, sonny.”
“All right. Say, Mark, you’re all thin.—There’s the doorbell, again.—Oh, say, a lady telephoned s’noon. Her name was Miss Monroe and she wanted you to call her up.”
“I like her nerve!”
Gurdy jumped at this loud snort of his uncle.
“Who’s she?”
“She’s an actress,” Mark stammered150, hoping the boy wouldn’t go on, and Carlson came in, his yellow face splotched as though he’d been walking fast.
“That Rand squirt been here?” he yelled at Mark.
“Yes. Why?”
“I passed him. What’s he want?”
“Me to meet her.”
“You goin’ to?”
“Guess I better, Mr. Carlson.”
Carlson jabbed Gurdy’s stomach with his cane151 and panted, “I can tell you what she wants and don’t you listen to it, neither. She’s had a fight with Billy Loeffler. He won’t put this whelp she married in her comp’ny. I bet she quits Loeffler. Her show’s no good, anyhow. Well, I won’t take her on. She’s a second rater. She’s an onion. I won’t have her for nothin’. Don’t you[65] get sentymental about Cora Boyle any more, son!”
“You needn’t worry,” said Mark, patting Gurdy’s ear.
Gurdy sat up and inquired, “Is that the Cora Boyle grandpapa says was a loose footed heifer?” So Carlson broke into screaming mirth. Mark flushed and mumbled152, sent the boy away and scowled154 respectfully at his partner. Sometimes Carlson’s crude amusement stung him.
“For God’s sake don’t talk of her in front of the kids, sir!”
“All right, son. Goin’ to let Gurdy come to the show tonight?”
“Not much!”
The old man lounged into a chair and jeered155 at his fosterling. Mark’s horror diverted him. He yapped, “Still think it’s a dirty show, do you?”
“Yes.... Oh, dunno! If there was anything to the slop but that second act, I wouldn’t care. Nothing but Sappho over again. Old as the hills.”
“What’s new in the show business, son?”
“The Merry Widow is,” Mark laughed, “and you wouldn’t buy it. Savage156 is bringing it in week after next. They were playing the music at Rector’s last night.—Look here, the set for the last act’s all wrong, still. Those green curtains—”
[66]“You and your sets! God,” said Carlson, “you’d ought to’ve been a scene painter!”
“I wish I could be, for about one week!” Mark let a grievance157 loose, slapping his leg. “These people make me sick! You tell them you want something new and they trot14 out some sketch of a room that every one’s seen for twenty years. They never think of—”
“You ain’t ever satisfied! You act like scenery made a show—”
Mark sighed, “Well, we’re not giving the public its moneysworth with this piece. The scenery’s—mediocre.—Come up and see Margot.”
The old man poked158 Margot’s doll with a shaking thumb and called her Maggie to see her scowl153, like Mark. The little girl’s solemn vanity delighted him. He was also delighted by Gurdy who became an embodied159 sneer160 when Mark fondled Margot. The boy watched Mark kiss this female nuisance then walked haughtily161 out of the library and set to work banging the piano in the upper playroom.
“All you need’s a wife and a mother-in-law and you’d have a happy home,” Carlson said when Mark let him out of the front door.
“Think I haven’t?”
[67]“No. I gave her a ring, last week. I suppose she’s been airing it.”
“Sure.—You big calf,” the old man said with gloom, “you always act so kind of surprised when one of ’em brags162 of you. You ain’t but twenty-nine and you’re a fine lookin’ jackass. Of course, she’ll show off her solytaire! A gal’s as vain as a man, any day. One of ’em’ll get you married, yet.—Yell at that cab, son. My legs are mighty163 tired.—See you at eight sharp. Now, mind, I won’t have nothin’ to say to Cora Boyle.”
Mark waited until the opening night of “The Merry Widow” for more news of Cora Boyle. She deserted165 her manager, Loeffler, while “Red Winter” was in the first week of its run at the 45th Street Theatre. Mark saw her lunching in the Knickerbocker grill166 with her young husband and a critic who always touted167 her as the successor of Ada Rehan. A busybody assured Mark that Cosmo Rand was twenty. Cora was thirty one. All three of her husbands, then, were younger. The oddity of theatrical marriage still alarmed Mark. In Fayettesville it was a fixed convention that girls should be younger than their husbands. But she was luscious168 to see at the “Merry Widow” opening. Mark thought how well she looked, hung above the crowd in the green lined box. She found novel fashions of massing her hair.[68] That night it rose in a black peak sustained by silver combs. She kept a yellow cloak slung169 across one bare shoulder concealing170 her gown. Against the gentle green of her background appeared three men. Rand wore a single eye-glass that sparkled dully when the outer lights were low. Through the music and the applause Mark was conscious of the box and of Cora’s red feathered fan. Her second husband, a thin Jewish comedian171, went up to shake hands in an entr’acte. Women behind Mark giggled172 wildly. He wandered into the bronze lobby where men were already whistling the slow melody of “Velia.” He was chaffed by an Irish actor manager born in Chicago whose accent was a triumph of maintained vowels173.
“An’ why don’t you go shake hands with Cora, bhoy?”
“Shut up, Terry. Come have a drink?”
He steered174 his friend to a new bar. The Irishman was rather drunk but vastly genial175. He maundered, “A fool Cora was to let go of you, bhoy. They’re tellin’ me you’ve made money in the stockmarket, too.”
“A little,” Mark admitted.
“I’ve had no luck that way. Well, a fool Cora was.—And how’s it feel bein’ a manager, lad?”
“Fine.”
The Irishman looked at Mark sidelong over his[69] glass, then up at the gold stars of the ceiling.
“Ho!—Yes, it’s a fine feelin’.—Well, wait until you’ve put on a couple of frosts, bhoy! And have to go hat in your hand huntin’ a backer. You lend money, easy.—You’ll see all the barflies that’ve had their ten and their twenty off you time and again—You’ll see ’em run when they see you comin’. Well, here tonight and hell tomorrow.—So Cora’s quit Billy Loeffler, has she? The dhear man! May his children all be acrobats176! ’Twas Gus Daly taught the scut every trick he knows. The Napoleon of Broadway! I mind Loeffler runnin’ err’nds for Daly in eighty five.—Well, you wanted to be a manager and here you are and here’s luck.—It’s a fine game—the finest there is—and, mind you, I’ve been a practicin’ bhurglar and a plumber177. Drink up.”
They drank and returned to the green theatre, resonant178 with the prelude179 of the next act. Mark was struggling in the half lit thresh of men strolling toward their seats when Cosmo Rand halted him.
“You’d not mind coming to supper in our rooms at the Knickbocker?”
Mark accepted. The scene of the Maxim180 revel181 was lost to him while he wondered what Cora wanted. He wouldn’t engage her. Carlson’s prejudice was probably valid182. The old man swore that she was worthless outside light comedy. Yet[70] she had good notices in all her parts. She was famous for clothes. She signed recommendations for silks and unguents. She had made a dressmaker popular among actresses. She had played in a failure in London whence came legends of a passionate98 Duke. The Duke’s passion might be invented, like other legends. He mused97. The flowing waltz music made him melancholy183. What sort of woman was Cora, nowadays? Every one changed. He, himself, had changed. He was getting callous184 to ready amities, explosions of mean jealousy185. He knew nothing of Cora, really. She might be a different person, better tempered, less frank. Women were incomprehensible, anyhow. He would never understand them, doubted that anyone did and sighed. He walked to Cora’s hotel with a feeling of great dignity. She had mauled him badly, abused him, lied to him and now she was seeking peace. Then, rising in the lift, he knew that this dignity had a hollow heart; he was afraid of Cora Boyle.
“This is awfully186 good of you,” she said, shaking hands. Then she rested one arm on the shelf filled with flowers and smiled slowly, theatrically187, kicking her rosy188 train into the right swath about her feet. Mark felt the display as a boast of her body. She resumed, “There’s really no sense in our looking at each other over a fence, is there?”
[71]His face, seen in a mirror among the flowers, cheered Mark to a grin. He looked impassive and bland189. He drawled, “No sense at all,” and stepped back. But she confused him. He had to speak. He said, “That’s a stunning190 frock.”
“You always did notice clothes, didn’t you? Cosmo, do give Mr. Walling a drink.”
Her voice had rounded and came crisply with an English hint. But it was not music. It jangled badly against Rand’s level, “What’ll you have, sir?” from the table where there were bottles and plates of sandwiches. Mark considered this boy as they talked of “The Merry Widow.” He saw man’s beauty inexpertly enough. Young Rand was handsome in the fragile, groomed191 manner of an English illustration. His chin was pointed192. His eyes seemed brown. His curls lay in even bands. He had neither length nor strength. But he talked sensibly, rather shrewdly.
“There’ll be a deal of money lost bringing over Viennese pieces, of course. This thing’s one in a thousand. Quite charming.”
Mark asked, “You’ve not been over here long?”
“I?” Rand laughed, “Lord, yes. I’m a Canadian. Born in Iowa, as a matter of fact. I’ve been a good deal in England, of course.—Oh, I was at your new piece the other night. Red Winter, I mean. How very nicely you’ve[72] mounted it. I really felt beastly cold in that second act. The snow’s so good.”
Mark bowed, selecting a sandwich. The critics had praised the snow scene. Rand might truly admire it. If the snow hadn’t satisfied Mark it had pleased every one else. He lost himself in thoughts of snow. Cora trailed her rose gown to the table and poured water into a glass of pale wine. A broad bracelet193 on her wrist clicked against the glass. She said, “You and Carlson own all the rights to Red Winter, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to send it to London?”
He laughed and put down his glass. “London? What for? It’d last just about one week!”
Cora smiled over a shoulder, retiring to the shelf of flowers.
“It would do better than that, Mark. I’ve played in London.”
“I’ve never played there but I’ve been there enough to know better. California Gold Rush! They don’t know there was such a thing!”
“Oh, I say,” said Rand.
Cora sipped194 some watered wine. The light shot through the glass and made a pear of glow on her throat. She was motionless, drinking. She became a shape set separate from the world in a momentary195 gleam. He knew that she was acting. Then she said sharply, “I’ll buy the English rights[73] if you and Carlson’ll make me a decent figure.”
“Oh, look here! You’d lose. I was talking to Ian Gail about it, last night. It wouldn’t make a cent in England. They wouldn’t know what it’s all about. And—it’s such a rotten play! There’s nothing in it!”
She asked, looking at him, “Can I have it?” and her flat voice took fire in the question, achieved music. She must want the poor play badly. Rand’s pink nails were lined along his moustache, hiding its silk. The room fell silent.
“Oh, sure,” Mark said, “You can have it, Cora. I’ll see Mr. Carlson in the morning.... But damned if I can make out what there is in the play.”
“It’s not the sort of thing you like, I know. But I’m sick of comedy and that’s all I’m ever offered, here. And I’m sick of New York. Well, make me an offer of the English rights—Only—I’m no bank, Mark.” She swaggered to the piano and tamely played a few bars of the Merry Widow waltz. She hadn’t Olive Ilden’s grace, so seated, and the rose gown seemed sallow against the black of the piano. She had finished her scene. Mark saw the familiar stir of her throat as she hid a yawn. He promised to hurry the business of the English rights to the melodrama196 and took his leave.
What had he feared? He tried to think, in[74] the corridor. Recapture, perhaps, by this woman who wasn’t, after all, half as wicked as others. Her new elegance197 hadn’t moved him. The stage did refine people! Cora had the full air of celebrity198. She was now controlled, vainer. She might still be a shrew. He saddened, ringing for the lift, and thought of Cosmo Rand’s future if “Red Winter” failed in London. The elevator deposited a page with a silver bucket and this went clinking to Cora’s door. Rand and she would drink champagne199. Mark sank pondering to the lounge and stopped to buy a cigar, there. It was almost one o’clock. Many of the lights had been turned out. The threaded marble lost sheen in the smoky gloom. Parties ebbed200 from the supper room and a wedge of dressed men waved to Mark. A candy merchant in the lead bawled201 to him and Mark went to be introduced to an English actress on the millionaire’s arm. She swayed, gracious and tipsy, involved in a cloak of jet velvet, her voice murmurous202 as brushed harp164 strings203 emerging from the pallor of her face above the browning gardenias204 on the cloak. She asked, “Like this wrap? Makes me feel like a very big black cigar—I should have a very broad red and gold band.” The men pressed about her fame sniggered, respecting this lovely myth. She was assigned in legend to the desire of princes. The candy merchant grinned, cuddling her hand on[75] his waistcoat. She tapped the brass206 edge of the turning door with a gardenia205 stem and smiled at Mark’s silk hat, then at the millionaire. “Am I talking too loud, cherished one?”
“Shout your head off,” the candy merchant said, “It’s a free country.”
“Oh, only the bond are free,” she proclaimed. She told Mark, “Bond Street’s getting frightfully shabby. Max Beerbohm says—I do look rather like a very big black cigar, don’t I?—Do stop pulling my arm, you dear, fat thing!”
“The car’s here, honey.”
“How dear of the car! We’re going to sup somewhere, aren’t we? Oh, no, to bed.—Like a very big, black cigar—”
She was drawn207 through the brazen208 doors away from Mark. The men pushed after her avidly209. She went tottering210 to the great motor, was engulfed211. Mark blinked in the waning212 smell of gardenias, waited for the motor to be gone and walked into the street. He saw rain falling. There was no taxicab in sight along the street. From the west an orange palpitation flooded this darker way. Steam from a clamorous213 drill blew north about the white tower of the Times building. Wet cabs jerked north and south along the gleam of rails. The higher lights were gone. The rain dropped from an upper purple and rapped the crown of his hat as Mark strolled to[76] the corner. Some one began to talk to him before he reached Broadway. Mark glanced at this beggar carelessly and paused to dig in a pocket for change. The shivering voice continued.
“... ain’t like I’d come bothering you before. I ain’t that kind. But you’ve got comp’nies on the road and honest, Walling, I’m as good as ever I was. You’ve mebbe heard that I’m taking dope. Not so. Some of that bunch at Bill Loeffler’s office have been puttin’ that out. Honest—”
Three white capped young sailors blundered past, all laughing, and jarred the shadowy body away from Mark. The man came shuffling214 back and clung to Mark’s sleeve, his face lavender in the rainy light above a shapeless overcoat. He whispered on, “Honest, some of the things that bunch at Loeffler’s place say about you and Carlson! But I ain’t takin’ nothing, Walling. Had a run of bad luck. I’m on the rocks. But you’ve seen me run a show. You know I can handle a comp’ny—”
“The light’s so bad,” said Mark, “and your collar—I’m not just sure who—”
The man gave a whimpering laugh. “Oh, I thought you was actin’ kind of chilly215 to an old pal25. I’m Jim Rothenstein. You know? I was stage manager for Carlson back when you was playin’ the kid in Nicoline. You know. I gave you your job. Cora Boyle she brought you in[77] to me and asked if there wasn’t a little part—Honest, I ain’t takin’ dope. That bunch—”
Mark gulped216, “Of course you’re not.” Some harsh drug escaped from the man’s rags. This was nightmare. Mark found a bill and held it out, backing from the shadow. “Come round to my office some day and I’ll see what—”
A hansom rolled to the curb and the driver raised his whip. Mark ran to shelter, crying his address. The grey horse moved toward Broadway. Mark shoved up the trap and shouted to the driver, “No! Go up Fifth Avenue!”
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收听单词发音
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1
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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2
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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auger
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| n.螺丝钻，钻孔机 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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8
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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9
navigated
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| v.给（船舶、飞机等）引航，导航( navigate的过去式和过去分词 )；（从海上、空中等）横越；横渡；飞跃 | |
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10
luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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13
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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14
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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15
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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16
orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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17
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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18
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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19
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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20
stencilled
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| v.用模板印（文字或图案）( stencil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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22
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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24
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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25
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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26
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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27
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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28
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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29
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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30
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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31
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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32
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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33
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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34
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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35
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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37
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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38
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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39
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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40
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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41
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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42
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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43
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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44
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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45
florists
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| n.花商，花农，花卉研究者( florist的名词复数 ) | |
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46
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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47
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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48
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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49
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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50
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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51
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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52
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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53
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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54
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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55
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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56
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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57
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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59
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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60
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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61
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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62
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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63
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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64
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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65
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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66
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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67
monograph
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| n.专题文章，专题著作 | |
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68
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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69
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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70
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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71
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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72
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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73
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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74
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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75
variant
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| adj.不同的，变异的；n.变体，异体 | |
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76
furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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77
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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78
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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79
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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80
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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81
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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82
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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83
limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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84
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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85
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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86
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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87
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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89
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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90
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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92
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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93
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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94
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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95
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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96
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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97
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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98
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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99
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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100
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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101
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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102
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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103
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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104
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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105
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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106
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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107
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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108
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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109
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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111
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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112
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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113
algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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114
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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115
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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116
spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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117
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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118
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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119
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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120
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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121
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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122
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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123
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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124
preening
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的现在分词 ) | |
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125
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
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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127
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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128
mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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129
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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130
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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131
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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132
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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133
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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135
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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136
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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137
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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139
rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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140
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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141
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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142
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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143
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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144
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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145
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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146
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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147
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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148
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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149
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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150
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
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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152
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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154
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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157
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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158
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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159
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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160
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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161
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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162
brags
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的第三人称单数 ) | |
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163
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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164
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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165
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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166
grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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167
touted
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| v.兜售( tout的过去式和过去分词 )；招揽；侦查；探听赛马情报 | |
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168
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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169
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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170
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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171
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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172
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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174
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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175
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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176
acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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177
plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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178
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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179
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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180
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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181
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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182
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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183
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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184
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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185
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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186
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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187
theatrically
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| adv.戏剧化地 | |
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188
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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189
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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190
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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191
groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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192
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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193
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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194
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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196
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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197
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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198
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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199
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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200
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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201
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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202
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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203
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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204
gardenias
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| n.栀子属植物，栀子花( gardenia的名词复数 ) | |
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205
gardenia
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| n.栀子花 | |
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206
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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207
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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208
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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209
avidly
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| adv.渴望地，热心地 | |
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210
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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211
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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212
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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213
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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214
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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215
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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216
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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