He was very impecunious3. He had one of the habits of the poor, in a degree so exaggerated as immeasurably to eclipse the most miserable4 of the unemployed5; I mean the habit of continual change of lodgings6. There are inland tracts8 of London where, in the very heart of artificial civilization, humanity has almost become nomadic9 once more. But in that restless interior there was no ragged10 tramp so restless as the elegant officer in the loose white clothes. He had shot a great many things in his time, to judge from his conversation, from partridges to elephants, but his slangier acquaintances were of opinion that “the moon” had been not unfrequently amid the victims of his victorious12 rifle. The phrase is a fine one, and suggests a mystic, elvish, nocturnal hunting.
He carried from house to house and from parish to parish a kit13 which consisted practically of five articles. Two odd-looking, large-bladed spears, tied together, the weapons, I suppose, of some savage14 tribe, a green umbrella, a huge and tattered15 copy of the Pickwick Papers, a big game rifle, and a large sealed jar of some unholy Oriental wine. These always went into every new lodging7, even for one night; and they went in quite undisguised, tied up in wisps of string or straw, to the delight of the poetic16 gutter17 boys in the little grey streets.
I had forgotten to mention that he always carried also his old regimental sword. But this raised another odd question about him. Slim and active as he was, he was no longer very young. His hair, indeed, was quite grey, though his rather wild almost Italian moustache retained its blackness, and his face was careworn19 under its almost Italian gaiety. To find a middle-aged20 man who has left the Army at the primitive21 rank of lieutenant is unusual and not necessarily encouraging. With the more cautious and solid this fact, like his endless flitting, did the mysterious gentleman no good.
Lastly, he was a man who told the kind of adventures which win a man admiration23, but not respect. They came out of queer places, where a good man would scarcely find himself, out of opium24 dens25 and gambling26 hells; they had the heat of the thieves' kitchens or smelled of a strange smoke from cannibal incantations. These are the kind of stories which discredit27 a person almost equally whether they are believed or no. If Keith's tales were false he was a liar28; if they were true he had had, at any rate, every opportunity of being a scamp.
He had just left the room in which I sat with Basil Grant and his brother Rupert, the voluble amateur detective. And as I say was invariably the case, we were all talking about him. Rupert Grant was a clever young fellow, but he had that tendency which youth and cleverness, when sharply combined, so often produce, a somewhat extravagant29 scepticism. He saw doubt and guilt30 everywhere, and it was meat and drink to him. I had often got irritated with this boyish incredulity of his, but on this particular occasion I am bound to say that I thought him so obviously right that I was astounded31 at Basil's opposing him, however banteringly.
I could swallow a good deal, being naturally of a simple turn, but I could not swallow Lieutenant Keith's autobiography32.
“You don't seriously mean, Basil,” I said, “that you think that that fellow really did go as a stowaway33 with Nansen and pretend to be the Mad Mullah and—”
“He has one fault,” said Basil thoughtfully, “or virtue35, as you may happen to regard it. He tells the truth in too exact and bald a style; he is too veracious36.”
“Oh! if you are going to be paradoxical,” said Rupert contemptuously, “be a bit funnier than that. Say, for instance, that he has lived all his life in one ancestral manor38.”
“No, he's extremely fond of change of scene,” replied Basil dispassionately, “and of living in odd places. That doesn't prevent his chief trait being verbal exactitude. What you people don't understand is that telling a thing crudely and coarsely as it happened makes it sound frightfully strange. The sort of things Keith recounts are not the sort of things that a man would make up to cover himself with honour; they are too absurd. But they are the sort of things that a man would do if he were sufficiently39 filled with the soul of skylarking.”
“So far from paradox37,” said his brother, with something rather like a sneer40, “you seem to be going in for journalese proverbs. Do you believe that truth is stranger than fiction?”
“Truth must of necessity be stranger than fiction,” said Basil placidly41. “For fiction is the creation of the human mind, and therefore is congenial to it.”
“Well, your lieutenant's truth is stranger, if it is truth, than anything I ever heard of,” said Rupert, relapsing into flippancy42. “Do you, on your soul, believe in all that about the shark and the camera?”
“I believe Keith's words,” answered the other. “He is an honest man.”
“I must say, I think you can hardly regard him as unimpeachable44 merely in himself,” I said mildly; “his mode of life—”
Before I could complete the sentence the door was flung open and Drummond Keith appeared again on the threshold, his white Panama on his head.
“I say, Grant,” he said, knocking off his cigarette ash against the door, “I've got no money in the world till next April. Could you lend me a hundred pounds? There's a good chap.”
Rupert and I looked at each other in an ironical46 silence. Basil, who was sitting by his desk, swung the chair round idly on its screw and picked up a quill-pen.
“Shall I cross it?” he asked, opening a cheque-book.
“Really,” began Rupert, with a rather nervous loudness, “since Lieutenant Keith has seen fit to make this suggestion to Basil before his family, I—”
“Here you are, Ugly,” said Basil, fluttering a cheque in the direction of the quite nonchalant officer. “Are you in a hurry?”
“Yes,” replied Keith, in a rather abrupt47 way. “As a matter of fact I want it now. I want to see my—er—business man.”
Rupert was eyeing him sarcastically48, and I could see that it was on the tip of his tongue to say, inquiringly, “Receiver of stolen goods, perhaps.” What he did say was:
“A business man? That's rather a general description, Lieutenant Keith.”
Keith looked at him sharply, and then said, with something rather like ill-temper:
“He's a thingum-my-bob, a house-agent, say. I'm going to see him.”
“Oh, you're going to see a house-agent, are you?” said Rupert Grant grimly. “Do you know, Mr Keith, I think I should very much like to go with you?”
Basil shook with his soundless laughter. Lieutenant Keith started a little; his brow blackened sharply.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “What did you say?”
“I was saying that I wondered whether you would mind our strolling along with you to this house-agent's.”
The visitor swung his stick with a sudden whirling violence.
“Oh, in God's name, come to my house-agent's! Come to my bedroom. Look under my bed. Examine my dust-bin. Come along!” And with a furious energy which took away our breath he banged his way out of the room.
Rupert Grant, his restless blue eyes dancing with his detective excitement, soon shouldered alongside him, talking to him with that transparent51 camaraderie52 which he imagined to be appropriate from the disguised policeman to the disguised criminal. His interpretation53 was certainly corroborated54 by one particular detail, the unmistakable unrest, annoyance55, and nervousness of the man with whom he walked. Basil and I tramped behind, and it was not necessary for us to tell each other that we had both noticed this.
Lieutenant Drummond Keith led us through very extraordinary and unpromising neighbourhoods in the search for his remarkable56 house-agent. Neither of the brothers Grant failed to notice this fact. As the streets grew closer and more crooked57 and the roofs lower and the gutters58 grosser with mud, a darker curiosity deepened on the brows of Basil, and the figure of Rupert seen from behind seemed to fill the street with a gigantic swagger of success. At length, at the end of the fourth or fifth lean grey street in that sterile59 district, we came suddenly to a halt, the mysterious lieutenant looking once more about him with a sort of sulky desperation. Above a row of shutters60 and a door, all indescribably dingy61 in appearance and in size scarce sufficient even for a penny toyshop, ran the inscription62: “P. Montmorency, House-Agent.”
“This is the office of which I spoke63,” said Keith, in a cutting voice. “Will you wait here a moment, or does your astonishing tenderness about my welfare lead you to wish to overhear everything I have to say to my business adviser64?”
Rupert's face was white and shaking with excitement; nothing on earth would have induced him now to have abandoned his prey66.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, clenching67 his hands behind his back, “I think I should feel myself justified68 in—”
“Oh! Come along in,” exploded the lieutenant. He made the same gesture of savage surrender. And he slammed into the office, the rest of us at his heels.
P. Montmorency, House-Agent, was a solitary69 old gentleman sitting behind a bare brown counter. He had an egglike head, froglike jaws70, and a grey hairy fringe of aureole round the lower part of his face; the whole combined with a reddish, aquiline71 nose. He wore a shabby black frock-coat, a sort of semi-clerical tie worn at a very unclerical angle, and looked, generally speaking, about as unlike a house-agent as anything could look, short of something like a sandwich man or a Scotch72 Highlander73.
We stood inside the room for fully34 forty seconds, and the odd old gentleman did not look at us. Neither, to tell the truth, odd as he was, did we look at him. Our eyes were fixed75, where his were fixed, upon something that was crawling about on the counter in front of him. It was a ferret.
The silence was broken by Rupert Grant. He spoke in that sweet and steely voice which he reserved for great occasions and practised for hours together in his bedroom. He said:
“Mr Montmorency, I think?”
The old gentleman started, lifted his eyes with a bland76 bewilderment, picked up the ferret by the neck, stuffed it alive into his trousers pocket, smiled apologetically, and said:
“Sir.”
“You are a house-agent, are you not?” asked Rupert.
To the delight of that criminal investigator77, Mr Montmorency's eyes wandered unquietly towards Lieutenant Keith, the only man present that he knew.
“A house-agent,” cried Rupert again, bringing out the word as if it were “burglar”.
“Yes... oh, yes,” said the man, with a quavering and almost coquettish smile. “I am a house-agent... oh, yes.”
“Well, I think,” said Rupert, with a sardonic78 sleekness79, “that Lieutenant Keith wants to speak to you. We have come in by his request.”
Lieutenant Keith was lowering gloomily, and now he spoke.
“I have come, Mr Montmorency, about that house of mine.”
“Yes, sir,” said Montmorency, spreading his fingers on the flat counter. “It's all ready, sir. I've attended to all your suggestions er—about the br—”
“Right,” cried Keith, cutting the word short with the startling neatness of a gunshot. “We needn't bother about all that. If you've done what I told you, all right.”
And he turned sharply towards the door.
Mr Montmorency, House-Agent, presented a picture of pathos80. After stammering81 a moment he said: “Excuse me... Mr Keith... there was another matter... about which I wasn't quite sure. I tried to get all the heating apparatus82 possible under the circumstances ... but in winter... at that elevation83...”
“Can't expect much, eh?” said the lieutenant, cutting in with the same sudden skill. “No, of course not. That's all right, Montmorency. There can't be any more difficulties,” and he put his hand on the handle of the door.
“I think,” said Rupert Grant, with a satanic suavity84, “that Mr Montmorency has something further to say to you, lieutenant.”
“Only,” said the house-agent, in desperation, “what about the birds?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Rupert, in a general blank.
Basil, who had remained throughout the proceedings86 in a state of Napoleonic calm, which might be more accurately87 described as a state of Napoleonic stupidity, suddenly lifted his leonine head.
“Before you go, Lieutenant Keith,” he said. “Come now. Really, what about the birds?”
“I'll take care of them,” said Lieutenant Keith, still with his long back turned to us; “they shan't suffer.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you,” cried the incomprehensible house-agent, with an air of ecstasy88. “You'll excuse my concern, sir. You know I'm wild on wild animals. I'm as wild as any of them on that. Thank you, sir. But there's another thing...”
The lieutenant, with his back turned to us, exploded with an indescribable laugh and swung round to face us. It was a laugh, the purport89 of which was direct and essential, and yet which one cannot exactly express. As near as it said anything, verbally speaking, it said: “Well, if you must spoil it, you must. But you don't know what you're spoiling.”
“There is another thing,” continued Mr Montmorency weakly. “Of course, if you don't want to be visited you'll paint the house green, but—”
“Green!” shouted Keith. “Green! Let it be green or nothing. I won't have a house of another colour. Green!” and before we could realize anything the door had banged between us and the street.
Rupert Grant seemed to take a little time to collect himself; but he spoke before the echoes of the door died away.
“Your client, Lieutenant Keith, appears somewhat excited,” he said. “What is the matter with him? Is he unwell?”
“Oh, I should think not,” said Mr Montmorency, in some confusion. “The negotiations90 have been somewhat difficult—the house is rather—”
“Green,” said Rupert calmly. “That appears to be a very important point. It must be rather green. May I ask you, Mr Montmorency, before I rejoin my companion outside, whether, in your business, it is usual to ask for houses by their colour? Do clients write to a house-agent asking for a pink house or a blue house? Or, to take another instance, for a green house?”
“Only,” said Montmorency, trembling, “only to be inconspicuous.”
Rupert had his ruthless smile. “Can you tell me any place on earth in which a green house would be inconspicuous?”
The house-agent was fidgeting nervously91 in his pocket. Slowly drawing out a couple of lizards92 and leaving them to run on the counter, he said:
“No; I can't.”
“You can't suggest an explanation?”
“No,” said Mr Montmorency, rising slowly and yet in such a way as to suggest a sudden situation, “I can't. And may I, as a busy man, be excused if I ask you, gentlemen, if you have any demand to make of me in connection with my business. What kind of house would you desire me to get for you, sir?”
He opened his blank blue eyes on Rupert, who seemed for the second staggered. Then he recovered himself with perfect common sense and answered:
“I am sorry, Mr Montmorency. The fascination93 of your remarks has unduly94 delayed us from joining our friend outside. Pray excuse my apparent impertinence.”
“Not at all, sir,” said the house-agent, taking a South American spider idly from his waistcoat pocket and letting it climb up the slope of his desk. “Not at all, sir. I hope you will favour me again.”
Rupert Grant dashed out of the office in a gust95 of anger, anxious to face Lieutenant Keith. He was gone. The dull, starlit street was deserted96.
“What do you say now?” cried Rupert to his brother. His brother said nothing now.
We all three strode down the street in silence, Rupert feverish97, myself dazed, Basil, to all appearance, merely dull. We walked through grey street after grey street, turning corners, traversing squares, scarcely meeting anyone, except occasional drunken knots of two or three.
In one small street, however, the knots of two or three began abruptly98 to thicken into knots of five or six and then into great groups and then into a crowd. The crowd was stirring very slightly. But anyone with a knowledge of the eternal populace knows that if the outside rim22 of a crowd stirs ever so slightly it means that there is madness in the heart and core of the mob. It soon became evident that something really important had happened in the centre of this excitement. We wormed our way to the front, with the cunning which is known only to cockneys, and once there we soon learned the nature of the difficulty. There had been a brawl99 concerned with some six men, and one of them lay almost dead on the stones of the street. Of the other four, all interesting matters were, as far as we were concerned, swallowed up in one stupendous fact. One of the four survivors100 of the brutal101 and perhaps fatal scuffle was the immaculate Lieutenant Keith, his clothes torn to ribbons, his eyes blazing, blood on his knuckles102. One other thing, however, pointed103 at him in a worse manner. A short sword, or very long knife, had been drawn104 out of his elegant walking-stick, and lay in front of him upon the stones. It did not, however, appear to be bloody105.
The police had already pushed into the centre with their ponderous106 omnipotence107, and even as they did so, Rupert Grant sprang forward with his incontrollable and intolerable secret.
“That is the man, constable108,” he shouted, pointing at the battered109 lieutenant. “He is a suspicious character. He did the murder.”
“There's been no murder done, sir,” said the policeman, with his automatic civility. “The poor man's only hurt. I shall only be able to take the names and addresses of the men in the scuffle and have a good eye kept on them.”
“Have a good eye kept on that one,” said Rupert, pale to the lips, and pointing to the ragged Keith.
“All right, sir,” said the policeman unemotionally, and went the round of the people present, collecting the addresses. When he had completed his task the dusk had fallen and most of the people not immediately connected with the examination had gone away. He still found, however, one eager-faced stranger lingering on the outskirts110 of the affair. It was Rupert Grant.
“Constable,” he said, “I have a very particular reason for asking you a question. Would you mind telling me whether that military fellow who dropped his sword-stick in the row gave you an address or not?”
“Yes, sir,” said the policeman, after a reflective pause; “yes, he gave me his address.”
“My name is Rupert Grant,” said that individual, with some pomp. “I have assisted the police on more than one occasion. I wonder whether you would tell me, as a special favour, what address?”
The constable looked at him.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “if you like. His address is: The Elms, Buxton Common, near Purley, Surrey.”
“Thank you,” said Rupert, and ran home through the gathering111 night as fast as his legs could carry him, repeating the address to himself.
Rupert Grant generally came down late in a rather lordly way to breakfast; he contrived112, I don't know how, to achieve always the attitude of the indulged younger brother. Next morning, however, when Basil and I came down we found him ready and restless.
“Well,” he said sharply to his brother almost before we sat down to the meal. “What do you think of your Drummond Keith now?”
“What do I think of him?” inquired Basil slowly. “I don't think anything of him.”
“I'm glad to hear it,” said Rupert, buttering his toast with an energy that was somewhat exultant113. “I thought you'd come round to my view, but I own I was startled at your not seeing it from the beginning. The man is a translucent114 liar and knave115.”
“I think,” said Basil, in the same heavy monotone as before, “that I did not make myself clear. When I said that I thought nothing of him I meant grammatically what I said. I meant that I did not think about him; that he did not occupy my mind. You, however, seem to me to think a lot of him, since you think him a knave. I should say he was glaringly good myself.”
“I sometimes think you talk paradox for its own sake,” said Rupert, breaking an egg with unnecessary sharpness. “What the deuce is the sense of it? Here's a man whose original position was, by our common agreement, dubious116. He's a wanderer, a teller117 of tall tales, a man who doesn't conceal118 his acquaintance with all the blackest and bloodiest119 scenes on earth. We take the trouble to follow him to one of his appointments, and if ever two human beings were plotting together and lying to every one else, he and that impossible house-agent were doing it. We followed him home, and the very same night he is in the thick of a fatal, or nearly fatal, brawl, in which he is the only man armed. Really, if this is being glaringly good, I must confess that the glare does not dazzle me.”
Basil was quite unmoved. “I admit his moral goodness is of a certain kind, a quaint11, perhaps a casual kind. He is very fond of change and experiment. But all the points you so ingeniously make against him are mere45 coincidence or special pleading. It's true he didn't want to talk about his house business in front of us. No man would. It's true that he carries a sword-stick. Any man might. It's true he drew it in the shock of a street fight. Any man would. But there's nothing really dubious in all this. There's nothing to confirm—”
As he spoke a knock came at the door.
“If you please, sir,” said the landlady120, with an alarmed air, “there's a policeman wants to see you.”
“Show him in,” said Basil, amid the blank silence.
The heavy, handsome constable who appeared at the door spoke almost as soon as he appeared there.
“I think one of you gentlemen,” he said, curtly121 but respectfully, “was present at the affair in Copper122 Street last night, and drew my attention very strongly to a particular man.”
Rupert half rose from his chair, with eyes like diamonds, but the constable went on calmly, referring to a paper.
“A young man with grey hair. Had light grey clothes, very good, but torn in the struggle. Gave his name as Drummond Keith.”
“This is amusing,” said Basil, laughing. “I was in the very act of clearing that poor officer's character of rather fanciful aspersions. What about him?”
“Well, sir,” said the constable, “I took all the men's addresses and had them all watched. It wasn't serious enough to do more than that. All the other addresses are all right. But this man Keith gave a false address. The place doesn't exist.”
“Well, by all that's good,” he cried. “This is a sign from heaven.”
“It's certainly very extraordinary,” said Basil quietly, with knitted brows. “It's odd the fellow should have given a false address, considering he was perfectly124 innocent in the—”
“Oh, you jolly old early Christian125 duffer,” cried Rupert, in a sort of rapture126, “I don't wonder you couldn't be a judge. You think every one as good as yourself. Isn't the thing plain enough now? A doubtful acquaintance; rowdy stories, a most suspicious conversation, mean streets, a concealed127 knife, a man nearly killed, and, finally, a false address. That's what we call glaring goodness.”
“It's certainly very extraordinary,” repeated Basil. And he strolled moodily128 about the room. Then he said: “You are quite sure, constable, that there's no mistake? You got the address right, and the police have really gone to it and found it was a fraud?”
“It was very simple, sir,” said the policeman, chuckling129. “The place he named was a well-known common quite near London, and our people were down there this morning before any of you were awake. And there's no such house. In fact, there are hardly any houses at all. Though it is so near London, it's a blank moor130 with hardly five trees on it, to say nothing of Christians131. Oh, no, sir, the address was a fraud right enough. He was a clever rascal132, and chose one of those scraps133 of lost England that people know nothing about. Nobody could say off-hand that there was not a particular house dropped somewhere about the heath. But as a fact, there isn't.”
Basil's face during this sensible speech had been growing darker and darker with a sort of desperate sagacity. He was cornered almost for the first time since I had known him; and to tell the truth I rather wondered at the almost childish obstinacy134 which kept him so close to his original prejudice in favour of the wildly questionable135 lieutenant. At length he said:
“You really searched the common? And the address was really not known in the district—by the way, what was the address?”
The constable selected one of his slips of paper and consulted it, but before he could speak Rupert Grant, who was leaning in the window in a perfect posture136 of the quiet and triumphant137 detective, struck in with the sharp and suave138 voice he loved so much to use.
“Why, I can tell you that, Basil,” he said graciously as he idly plucked leaves from a plant in the window. “I took the precaution to get this man's address from the constable last night.”
“And what was it?” asked his brother gruffly.
“The constable will correct me if I am wrong,” said Rupert, looking sweetly at the ceiling. “It was: The Elms, Buxton Common, near Purley, Surrey.”
“Right, sir,” said the policeman, laughing and folding up his papers.
There was a silence, and the blue eyes of Basil looked blindly for a few seconds into the void. Then his head fell back in his chair so suddenly that I started up, thinking him ill. But before I could move further his lips had flown apart (I can use no other phrase) and a peal139 of gigantic laughter struck and shook the ceiling—laughter that shook the laughter, laughter redoubled, laughter incurable140, laughter that could not stop.
Two whole minutes afterwards it was still unended; Basil was ill with laughter; but still he laughed. The rest of us were by this time ill almost with terror.
“Excuse me,” said the insane creature, getting at last to his feet. “I am awfully142 sorry. It is horribly rude. And stupid, too. And also unpractical, because we have not much time to lose if we're to get down to that place. The train service is confoundedly bad, as I happen to know. It's quite out of proportion to the comparatively small distance.”
“Get down to that place?” I repeated blankly. “Get down to what place?”
“I have forgotten its name,” said Basil vaguely143, putting his hands in his pockets as he rose. “Something Common near Purley. Has any one got a timetable?”
“You don't seriously mean,” cried Rupert, who had been staring in a sort of confusion of emotions. “You don't mean that you want to go to Buxton Common, do you? You can't mean that!”
“Why shouldn't I go to Buxton Common?” asked Basil, smiling.
“Why should you?” said his brother, catching144 hold again restlessly of the plant in the window and staring at the speaker.
“To find our friend, the lieutenant, of course,” said Basil Grant. “I thought you wanted to find him?”
Rupert broke a branch brutally145 from the plant and flung it impatiently on the floor. “And in order to find him,” he said, “you suggest the admirable expedient146 of going to the only place on the habitable earth where we know he can't be.”
The constable and I could not avoid breaking into a kind of assenting147 laugh, and Rupert, who had family eloquence148, was encouraged to go on with a reiterated149 gesture:
“He may be in Buckingham Palace; he may be sitting astride the cross of St Paul's; he may be in jail (which I think most likely); he may be in the Great Wheel; he may be in my pantry; he may be in your store cupboard; but out of all the innumerable points of space, there is only one where he has just been systematically150 looked for and where we know that he is not to be found—and that, if I understand you rightly, is where you want us to go.”
“Exactly,” said Basil calmly, getting into his great-coat; “I thought you might care to accompany me. If not, of course, make yourselves jolly here till I come back.”
It is our nature always to follow vanishing things and value them if they really show a resolution to depart. We all followed Basil, and I cannot say why, except that he was a vanishing thing, that he vanished decisively with his great-coat and his stick. Rupert ran after him with a considerable flurry of rationality.
“My dear chap,” he cried, “do you really mean that you see any good in going down to this ridiculous scrub, where there is nothing but beaten tracks and a few twisted trees, simply because it was the first place that came into a rowdy lieutenant's head when he wanted to give a lying reference in a scrape?”
“Yes,” said Basil, taking out his watch, “and, what's worse, we've lost the train.”
He paused a moment and then added: “As a matter of fact, I think we may just as well go down later in the day. I have some writing to do, and I think you told me, Rupert, that you thought of going to the Dulwich Gallery. I was rather too impetuous. Very likely he wouldn't be in. But if we get down by the 5.15, which gets to Purley about 6, I expect we shall just catch him.”
“Catch him!” cried his brother, in a kind of final anger. “I wish we could. Where the deuce shall we catch him now?”
“I keep forgetting the name of the common,” said Basil, as he buttoned up his coat. “The Elms—what is it? Buxton Common, near Purley. That's where we shall find him.”
We all followed him. We snatched our hats from the hat-stand and our sticks from the umbrella-stand; and why we followed him we did not and do not know. But we always followed him, whatever was the meaning of the fact, whatever was the nature of his mastery. And the strange thing was that we followed him the more completely the more nonsensical appeared the thing which he said. At bottom, I believe, if he had risen from our breakfast table and said: “I am going to find the Holy Pig with Ten Tails,” we should have followed him to the end of the world.
I don't know whether this mystical feeling of mine about Basil on this occasion has got any of the dark and cloudy colour, so to speak, of the strange journey that we made the same evening. It was already very dense152 twilight153 when we struck southward from Purley. Suburbs and things on the London border may be, in most cases, commonplace and comfortable. But if ever by any chance they really are empty solitudes154 they are to the human spirit more desolate155 and dehumanized than any Yorkshire moors156 or Highland74 hills, because the suddenness with which the traveller drops into that silence has something about it as of evil elf-land. It seems to be one of the ragged suburbs of the cosmos157 half-forgotten by God—such a place was Buxton Common, near Purley.
There was certainly a sort of grey futility158 in the landscape itself. But it was enormously increased by the sense of grey futility in our expedition. The tracts of grey turf looked useless, the occasional wind-stricken trees looked useless, but we, the human beings, more useless than the hopeless turf or the idle trees. We were maniacs159 akin65 to the foolish landscape, for we were come to chase the wild goose which has led men and left men in bogs160 from the beginning. We were three dazed men under the captaincy of a madman going to look for a man whom we knew was not there in a house that had no existence. A livid sunset seemed to look at us with a sort of sickly smile before it died.
Basil went on in front with his coat collar turned up, looking in the gloom rather like a grotesque161 Napoleon. We crossed swell162 after swell of the windy common in increasing darkness and entire silence. Suddenly Basil stopped and turned to us, his hands in his pockets. Through the dusk I could just detect that he wore a broad grin as of comfortable success.
“Well,” he cried, taking his heavily gloved hands out of his pockets and slapping them together, “here we are at last.”
The wind swirled163 sadly over the homeless heath; two desolate elms rocked above us in the sky like shapeless clouds of grey. There was not a sign of man or beast to the sullen164 circle of the horizon, and in the midst of that wilderness165 Basil Grant stood rubbing his hands with the air of an innkeeper standing166 at an open door.
“How jolly it is,” he cried, “to get back to civilization. That notion that civilization isn't poetical167 is a civilised delusion168. Wait till you've really lost yourself in nature, among the devilish woodlands and the cruel flowers. Then you'll know that there's no star like the red star of man that he lights on his hearthstone; no river like the red river of man, the good red wine, which you, Mr Rupert Grant, if I have any knowledge of you, will be drinking in two or three minutes in enormous quantities.”
Rupert and I exchanged glances of fear. Basil went on heartily169, as the wind died in the dreary170 trees.
“You'll find our host a much more simple kind of fellow in his own house. I did when I visited him when he lived in the cabin at Yarmouth, and again in the loft171 at the city warehouse172. He's really a very good fellow. But his greatest virtue remains173 what I said originally.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, finding his speech straying towards a sort of sanity174. “What is his greatest virtue?”
“His greatest virtue,” replied Basil, “is that he always tells the literal truth.”
“Well, really,” cried Rupert, stamping about between cold and anger, and slapping himself like a cabman, “he doesn't seem to have been very literal or truthful175 in this case, nor you either. Why the deuce, may I ask, have you brought us out to this infernal place?”
“He was too truthful, I confess,” said Basil, leaning against the tree; “too hardly veracious, too severely176 accurate. He should have indulged in a little more suggestiveness and legitimate177 romance. But come, it's time we went in. We shall be late for dinner.”
Rupert whispered to me with a white face:
“Is it a hallucination, do you think? Does he really fancy he sees a house?”
“I suppose so,” I said. Then I added aloud, in what was meant to be a cheery and sensible voice, but which sounded in my ears almost as strange as the wind:
“Come, come, Basil, my dear fellow. Where do you want us to go?”
“Why, up here,” cried Basil, and with a bound and a swing he was above our heads, swarming178 up the grey column of the colossal179 tree.
“Come up, all of you,” he shouted out of the darkness, with the voice of a schoolboy. “Come up. You'll be late for dinner.”
The two great elms stood so close together that there was scarcely a yard anywhere, and in some places not more than a foot, between them. Thus occasional branches and even bosses and boles formed a series of footholds that almost amounted to a rude natural ladder. They must, I supposed, have been some sport of growth, Siamese twins of vegetation.
Why we did it I cannot think; perhaps, as I have said, the mystery of the waste and dark had brought out and made primary something wholly mystical in Basil's supremacy180. But we only felt that there was a giant's staircase going somewhere, perhaps to the stars; and the victorious voice above called to us out of heaven. We hoisted181 ourselves up after him.
Half-way up some cold tongue of the night air struck and sobered me suddenly. The hypnotism of the madman above fell from me, and I saw the whole map of our silly actions as clearly as if it were printed. I saw three modern men in black coats who had begun with a perfectly sensible suspicion of a doubtful adventurer and who had ended, God knows how, half-way up a naked tree on a naked moorland, far from that adventurer and all his works, that adventurer who was at that moment, in all probability, laughing at us in some dirty Soho restaurant. He had plenty to laugh at us about, and no doubt he was laughing his loudest; but when I thought what his laughter would be if he knew where we were at that moment, I nearly let go of the tree and fell.
“Swinburne,” said Rupert suddenly, from above, “what are we doing? Let's get down again,” and by the mere sound of his voice I knew that he too felt the shock of wakening to reality.
“We can't leave poor Basil,” I said. “Can't you call to him or get hold of him by the leg?”
“He's too far ahead,” answered Rupert; “he's nearly at the top of the beastly thing. Looking for Lieutenant Keith in the rooks' nests, I suppose.”
We were ourselves by this time far on our frantic182 vertical183 journey. The mighty184 trunks were beginning to sway and shake slightly in the wind. Then I looked down and saw something which made me feel that we were far from the world in a sense and to a degree that I cannot easily describe. I saw that the almost straight lines of the tall elm trees diminished a little in perspective as they fell. I was used to seeing parallel lines taper185 towards the sky. But to see them taper towards the earth made me feel lost in space, like a falling star.
“Can nothing be done to stop Basil?” I called out.
“No,” answered my fellow climber. “He's too far up. He must get to the top, and when he finds nothing but wind and leaves he may go sane141 again. Hark at him above there; you can just hear him talking to himself.”
“Perhaps he's talking to us,” I said.
“No,” said Rupert, “he'd shout if he was. I've never known him to talk to himself before; I'm afraid he really is bad tonight; it's a known sign of the brain going.”
“Yes,” I said sadly, and listened. Basil's voice certainly was sounding above us, and not by any means in the rich and riotous186 tones in which he had hailed us before. He was speaking quietly, and laughing every now and then, up there among the leaves and stars.
After a silence mingled187 with this murmur188, Rupert Grant suddenly said, “My God!” with a violent voice.
“What's the matter—are you hurt?” I cried, alarmed.
“No. Listen to Basil,” said the other in a very strange voice. “He's not talking to himself.”
“Then he is talking to us,” I cried.
“No,” said Rupert simply, “he's talking to somebody else.”
Great branches of the elm loaded with leaves swung about us in a sudden burst of wind, but when it died down I could still hear the conversational189 voice above. I could hear two voices.
Suddenly from aloft came Basil's boisterous190 hailing voice as before: “Come up, you fellows. Here's Lieutenant Keith.”
And a second afterwards came the half-American voice we had heard in our chambers191 more than once. It called out:
“Happy to see you, gentlemen; pray come in.”
Out of a hole in an enormous dark egg-shaped thing, pendent in the branches like a wasps192' nest, was protruding193 the pale face and fierce moustache of the lieutenant, his teeth shining with that slightly Southern air that belonged to him.
Somehow or other, stunned194 and speechless, we lifted ourselves heavily into the opening. We fell into the full glow of a lamp-lit, cushioned, tiny room, with a circular wall lined with books, a circular table, and a circular seat around it. At this table sat three people. One was Basil, who, in the instant after alighting there, had fallen into an attitude of marmoreal ease as if he had been there from boyhood; he was smoking a cigar with a slow pleasure. The second was Lieutenant Drummond Keith, who looked happy also, but feverish and doubtful compared with his granite195 guest. The third was the little bald-headed house-agent with the wild whiskers, who called himself Montmorency. The spears, the green umbrella, and the cavalry196 sword hung in parallels on the wall. The sealed jar of strange wine was on the mantelpiece, the enormous rifle in the corner. In the middle of the table was a magnum of champagne197. Glasses were already set for us.
The wind of the night roared far below us, like an ocean at the foot of a light-house. The room stirred slightly, as a cabin might in a mild sea.
Our glasses were filled, and we still sat there dazed and dumb. Then Basil spoke.
“You seem still a little doubtful, Rupert. Surely there is no further question about the cold veracity198 of our injured host.”
“I don't quite grasp it all,” said Rupert, blinking still in the sudden glare. “Lieutenant Keith said his address was—”
“It's really quite right, sir,” said Keith, with an open smile. “The bobby asked me where I lived. And I said, quite truthfully, that I lived in the elms on Buxton Common, near Purley. So I do. This gentleman, Mr Montmorency, whom I think you have met before, is an agent for houses of this kind. He has a special line in arboreal199 villas201. It's being kept rather quiet at present, because the people who want these houses don't want them to get too common. But it's just the sort of thing a fellow like myself, racketing about in all sorts of queer corners of London, naturally knocks up against.”
“Are you really an agent for arboreal villas?” asked Rupert eagerly, recovering his ease with the romance of reality.
Mr Montmorency, in his embarrassment202, fingered one of his pockets and nervously pulled out a snake, which crawled about the table.
“W-well, yes, sir,” he said. “The fact was—er—my people wanted me very much to go into the house-agency business. But I never cared myself for anything but natural history and botany and things like that. My poor parents have been dead some years now, but—naturally I like to respect their wishes. And I thought somehow that an arboreal villa200 agency was a sort of—of compromise between being a botanist203 and being a house-agent.”
Rupert could not help laughing. “Do you have much custom?” he asked.
“N-not much,” replied Mr Montmorency, and then he glanced at Keith, who was (I am convinced) his only client. “But what there is—very select.”
“My dear friends,” said Basil, puffing204 his cigar, “always remember two facts. The first is that though when you are guessing about any one who is sane, the sanest205 thing is the most likely; when you are guessing about any one who is, like our host, insane, the maddest thing is the most likely. The second is to remember that very plain literal fact always seems fantastic. If Keith had taken a little brick box of a house in Clapham with nothing but railings in front of it and had written 'The Elms' over it, you wouldn't have thought there was anything fantastic about that. Simply because it was a great blaring, swaggering lie you would have believed it.”
“Drink your wine, gentlemen,” said Keith, laughing, “for this confounded wind will upset it.”
We drank, and as we did so, although the hanging house, by a cunning mechanism206, swung only slightly, we knew that the great head of the elm tree swayed in the sky like a stricken thistle.
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1
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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8
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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12
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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13
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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14
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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15
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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17
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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19
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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20
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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21
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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22
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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23
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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24
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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25
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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26
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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27
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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28
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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29
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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30
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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31
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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32
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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33
stowaway
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| n.（藏于轮船，飞机中的）偷乘者 | |
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34
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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35
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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36
veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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38
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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40
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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41
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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42
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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43
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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44
unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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45
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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46
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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47
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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48
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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49
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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50
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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51
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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52
camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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53
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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54
corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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55
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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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
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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58
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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59
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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60
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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61
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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62
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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63
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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64
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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66
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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67
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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68
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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69
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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70
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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71
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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72
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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73
highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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74
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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75
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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76
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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77
investigator
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| n.研究者，调查者，审查者 | |
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78
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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79
sleekness
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| 油滑； 油光发亮； 时髦阔气； 线条明快 | |
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80
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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81
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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82
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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83
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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84
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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85
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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86
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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87
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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88
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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89
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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90
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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91
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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92
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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93
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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94
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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95
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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96
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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97
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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98
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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99
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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100
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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101
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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102
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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103
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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104
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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105
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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106
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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107
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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108
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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109
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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110
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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111
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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112
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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113
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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114
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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115
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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116
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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117
teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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118
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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119
bloodiest
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| adj.血污的( bloody的最高级 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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120
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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121
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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122
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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123
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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124
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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125
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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126
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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127
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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128
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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129
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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130
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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131
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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132
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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133
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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134
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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135
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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136
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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137
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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138
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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139
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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140
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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141
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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142
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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143
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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144
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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145
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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146
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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147
assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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148
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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149
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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151
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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152
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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153
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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154
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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155
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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156
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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157
cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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158
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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159
maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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160
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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161
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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162
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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163
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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165
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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166
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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167
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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168
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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169
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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170
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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171
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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172
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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173
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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174
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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175
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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176
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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177
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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178
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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179
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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180
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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181
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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183
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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184
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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185
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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186
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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187
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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188
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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189
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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190
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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191
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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192
wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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193
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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194
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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195
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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196
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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197
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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198
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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199
arboreal
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| adj.树栖的；树的 | |
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200
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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201
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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202
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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203
botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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204
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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205
sanest
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的最高级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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206
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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