The visitor was not a person easily discouraged. He took Lady Lydiard’s hand, and kissed it with easy grace. A shade of irony4 was in his manner, agreeably relieved by a playful flash of tenderness.
“Years, my dear aunt?” he said. “Look in your glass and you will see that time has stood still since we met last. How wonderfully well you wear! When shall we celebrate the appearance of your first wrinkle? I am too old; I shall never live to see it.”
He took an easychair, uninvited; placed himself close at his aunt’s side, and ran his eye over her ill-chosen dress with an air of satirical admiration6. “How perfectly7 successful!” he said, with his well-bred insolence8. “What a chaste9 gayety of color!”
“What do you want?” asked her Ladyship, not in the least softened10 by the compliment.
“I want to pay my respects to my dear aunt,” Felix answered, perfectly impenetrable to his ungracious reception, and perfectly comfortable in a spacious11 arm-chair.
No pen-and-ink portrait need surely be drawn12 of Felix Sweetsir — he is too well-known a picture in society. The little lith e man, with his bright, restless eyes, and his long iron-gray hair falling in curls to his shoulders, his airy step and his cordial manner; his uncertain age, his innumerable accomplishments13, and his unbounded popularity — is he not familiar everywhere, and welcome everywhere? How gratefully he receives, how prodigally14 he repays, the cordial appreciation15 of an admiring world! Every man he knows is “a charming fellow.” Every woman he sees is “sweetly pretty.” What picnics he gives on the banks of the Thames in the summer season! What a well-earned little income he derives16 from the whist-table! What an inestimable actor he is at private theatricals17 of all sorts (weddings included)! Did you never read Sweetsir’s novel, dashed off in the intervals18 of curative perspiration19 at a German bath? Then you don’t know what brilliant fiction really is. He has never written a second work; he does everything, and only does it once. One song — the despair of professional composers. One picture — just to show how easily a gentleman can take up an art and drop it again. A really multiform man, with all the graces and all the accomplishments scintillating20 perpetually at his fingers’ ends. If these poor pages have achieved nothing else, they have done a service to persons not in society by presenting them to Sweetsir. In his gracious company the narrative21 brightens; and writer and reader (catching reflected brilliancy) understand each other at last, thanks to Sweetsir.
“Well,” said Lady Lydiard, “now you are here, what have you got to say for yourself? You have been abroad, of course! Where?”
“Principally at Paris, my dear aunt. The only place that is fit to live in — for this excellent reason, that the French are the only people who know how to make the most of life. One has relations and friends in England and every now and then one returns to London —”
“When one has spent all one’s money in Paris,” her Ladyship interposed. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it?”
Felix submitted to the interruption with his delightful23 good-humor.
“What a bright creature you are!” he exclaimed. “What would I not give for your flow of spirits! Yes — one does spend money in Paris, as you say. The clubs, the stock exchange, the race-course: you try your luck here, there, and everywhere; and you lose and win, win and lose — and you haven’t a dull day to complain of.” He paused, his smile died away, he looked inquiringly at Lady Lydiard. “What a wonderful existence yours must be,” he resumed. “The everlasting24 question with your needy25 fellow-creatures, ‘Where am I to get money?’ is a question that has never passed your lips. Enviable woman!” He paused once more — surprised and puzzled this time. “What is the matter, my dear aunt? You seem to be suffering under some uneasiness.”
“I am suffering under your conversation,” her Ladyship answered sharply. “Money is a sore subject with me just now,” she went on, with her eyes on her nephew, watching the effect of what she said. “I have spent five hundred pounds this morning with a scrape of my pen. And, only a week since, I yielded to temptation and made an addition to my picture-gallery.” She looked, as she said those words, towards an archway at the further end of the room, closed by curtains of purple velvet26. “I really tremble when I think of what that one picture cost me before I could call it mine. A landscape by Hobbema; and the National Gallery bidding against me. Never mind!” she concluded, consoling herself, as usual, with considerations that were beneath her. “Hobbema will sell at my death for a bigger price than I gave for him — that’s one comfort!” She looked again at Felix; a smile of mischievous27 satisfaction began to show itself in her face. “Anything wrong with your watch-chain?” she asked.
Felix, absently playing with his watch-chain, started as if his aunt had suddenly awakened28 him. While Lady Lydiard had been speaking, his vivacity29 had subsided30 little by little, and had left him looking so serious and so old that his most intimate friend would hardly have known him again. Roused by the sudden question that had been put to him, he seemed to be casting about in his mind in search of the first excuse for his silence that might turn up.
“I was wondering,” he began, “why I miss something when I look round this beautiful room; something familiar, you know, that I fully5 expected to find here.”
“Tommie?” suggested Lady Lydiard, still watching her nephew as maliciously31 as ever.
“That’s it!” cried Felix, seizing his excuse, and rallying his spirits. “Why don’t I hear Tommie snarling32 behind me; why don’t I feel Tommie’s teeth in my trousers?”
The smile vanished from Lady Lydiard’s face; the tone taken by her nephew in speaking of her dog was disrespectful in the extreme. She showed him plainly that she disapproved33 of it. Felix went on, nevertheless, impenetrable to reproof34 of the silent sort. “Dear little Tommie! So delightfully35 fat; and such an infernal temper! I don’t know whether I hate him or love him. Where is he?”
“Ill in bed,” answered her ladyship, with a gravity which startled even Felix himself. “I wish to speak to you about Tommie. You know everybody. Do you know of a good dog-doctor? The person I have employed so far doesn’t at all satisfy me.”
“Professional person?” inquired Felix.
“Yes.”
“All humbugs36, my dear aunt. The worse the dog gets the bigger the bill grows, don’t you see? I have got the man for you — a gentleman. Knows more about horses and dogs than all the veterinary surgeons put together. We met in the boat yesterday crossing the Channel. You know him by name, of course? Lord Rotherfield’s youngest son, Alfred Hardyman.”
“The owner of the stud farm? The man who has bred the famous racehorses?” cried Lady Lydiard. “My dear Felix, how can I presume to trouble such a great personage about my dog?”
Felix burst into his genial37 laugh. “Never was modesty38 more woefully out of place,” he rejoined. “Hardyman is dying to be presented to your Ladyship. He has heard, like everybody, of the magnificent decorations of this house, and he is longing39 to see them. His chambers40 are close by, in Pall22 Mall. If he is at home we will have him here in five minutes. Perhaps I had better see the dog first?”
Lady Lydiard shook her head. “Isabel says he had better not be disturbed,” she answered. “Isabel understands him better than anybody.”
Felix lifted his lively eyebrows41 with a mixed expression of curiosity and surprise. “Who is Isabel?”
Lady Lydiard was vexed42 with herself for carelessly mentioning Isabel’s name in her nephew’s presence. Felix was not the sort of person whom she was desirous of admitting to her confidence in domestic matters. “Isabel is an addition to my household since you were here last,” she answered shortly.
“Young and pretty?” inquired Felix. “Ah! you look serious, and you don’t answer me. Young and pretty, evidently. Which may I see first, the addition to your household or the addition to your picture-gallery? You look at the picture-gallery — I am answered again.” He rose to approach the archway, and stopped at his first step forward. “A sweet girl is a dreadful responsibility, aunt,” he resumed, with an ironical43 assumption of gravity. “Do you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if Isabel, in the long run, cost you more than Hobbema. Who is this at the door?”
The person at the door was Robert Moody44, returned from the bank. Mr. Felix Sweetsir, being near-sighted, was obliged to fit his eye-glass in position before he could recognize the prime minister of Lady Lydiard’s household.
“Ha! our worthy45 Moody. How well he wears! Not a gray hair on his head — and look at mine! What dye do you use, Moody? If he had my open disposition46 he would tell. As it is, he looks unutterable things, and holds his tongue. Ah! if I could only have held my tongue — when I was in the diplomatic service, you know — what a position I might have occupied by this time! Don’t let me interrupt you, Moody, if you have anything to say to Lady Lydiard.”
Having acknowledged Mr. Sweetsir’s lively greeting by a formal bow, and a grave look of wonder which respectfully repelled47 that vivacious48 gentleman’s flow of humor, Moody turned towards his mistress.
“Have you got the bank-note?” asked her Ladyship.
Moody laid the bank-note on the table.
“Am I in the way?” inquired Felix.
“No,” said his aunt. “I have a letter to write; it won’t occupy me for more than a few minutes. You can stay here, or go and look at the Hobbema, which you please.”
Felix made a second sauntering attempt to reach the picture-gallery. Arrived within a few steps of the entrance, he stopped again, attracted by an open cabinet of Italian workmanship, filled with rare old china. Being nothing if not a cultivated amateur, Mr. Sweetsir paused to pay his passing tribute of admiration before the contents of the cabinet. “Charming! charming!” he said to himself, with his head twisted appreciatively a little on one side. Lady Lydiard and Moody left him in undisturbed enjoyment49 of the china, and went on with the business of the bank-note.
“Ought we to take the number of the note, in case of accident?” asked her Ladyship.
Moody produced a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “I took the number, my Lady, at the bank.”
“Very well. You keep it. While I am writing my letter, suppose you direct the envelope. What is the clergyman’s name?”
Moody mentioned the name and directed the envelope. Felix, happening to look round at Lady Lydiard and the steward50 while they were both engaged in writing, returned suddenly to the table as if he had been struck by a new idea.
“Is there a third pen?” he asked. “Why shouldn’t I write a line at once to Hardyman, aunt? The sooner you have his opinion about Tommie the better — don’t you think so?”
Lady Lydiard pointed51 to the pen tray, with a smile. To show consideration for her dog was to seize irresistibly52 on the high-road to her favor. Felix set to work on his letter, in a large scrambling53 handwriting, with plenty of ink and a noisy pen. “I declare we are like clerks in an office,” he remarked, in his cheery way. “All with our noses to the paper, writing as if we lived by it! Here, Moody, let one of the servants take this at once to Mr. Hardyman’s.”
The messenger was despatched. Robert returned, and waited near his mistress, with the directed envelope in his hand. Felix sauntered back slowly towards the picture-gallery, for the third time. In a moment more Lady Lydiard finished her letter, and folded up the bank-note in it. She had just taken the directed envelope from Moody, and had just placed the letter inside it, when a scream from the inner room, in which Isabel was nursing the sick dog, startled everybody. “My Lady! my Lady!” cried the girl, distractedly, “Tommie is in a fit? Tommie is dying!”
Lady Lydiard dropped the unclosed envelope on the table, and ran — yes, short as she was and fat as she was, ran — into the inner room. The two men, left together, looked at each other.
“Moody,” said Felix, in his lazily-cynical way, “do you think if you or I were in a fit that her Ladyship would run? Bah! these are the things that shake one’s faith in human nature. I feel infernally seedy. That cursed Channel passage — I tremble in my inmost stomach when I think of it. Get me something, Moody.”
“What shall I send you, sir?” Moody asked coldly.
“Some dry curacoa and a biscuit. And let it be brought to me in the picture-gallery. Damn the dog! I’ll go and look at Hobbema.”
This time he succeeded in reaching the archway, and disappeared behind the curtains of the picture-gallery.
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1
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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7
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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8
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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9
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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10
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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11
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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13
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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14
prodigally
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| adv.浪费地，丰饶地 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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16
derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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17
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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18
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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20
scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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21
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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22
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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23
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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24
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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26
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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27
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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28
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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29
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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30
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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31
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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32
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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33
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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35
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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36
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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37
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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38
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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41
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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42
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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43
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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44
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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45
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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46
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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47
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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48
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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49
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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50
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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51
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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52
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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53
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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