The Foreign Minister sat in his dressing-room in the great house in Cavendish Square. It was May, and the square garden shot up like a veil of green in front of his window, but, in spite of the sunshine, a fire crackled and sputtered5 in the grate of the sick-room. In a deep-red plush armchair sat the great statesman, his head leaning back upon a silken pillow, one foot stretched forward and supported upon a padded rest. His deeply-lined, finely-chiselled face and slow-moving, heavily-pouched eyes were turned upwards6 towards the carved and painted ceiling, with that inscrutable expression which had been the despair and the admiration7 of his Continental8 colleagues upon the occasion of the famous Congress when he had made his first appearance in the arena9 of European diplomacy10. Yet at the present moment his capacity for hiding his emotions had for the instant failed him, for about the lines of his strong, straight mouth and the puckers11 of his broad, overhanging forehead, there were sufficient indications of the restlessness and impatience12 which consumed him.
And indeed there was enough to make a man chafe13, for he had much to think of and yet was bereft14 of the power of thought. There was, for example, that question of the Dobrutscha and the navigation of the mouths of the Danube which was ripe for settlement. The Russian Chancellor15 had sent a masterly statement upon the subject, and it was the pet ambition of our Minister to answer it in a worthy16 fashion. Then there was the blockade of Crete, and the British fleet lying off Cape17 Matapan, waiting for instructions which might change the course of European history. And there were those three unfortunate Macedonian tourists, whose friends were momentarily expecting to receive their ears or their fingers in default of the exorbitant18 ransom19 which had been demanded. They must be plucked out of those mountains, by force or by diplomacy, or an outraged20 public would vent21 its wrath22 upon Downing Street. All these questions pressed for a solution, and yet here was the Foreign Minister of England, planted in an arm-chair, with his whole thoughts and attention riveted23 upon the ball of his right toe! It was humiliating—horribly humiliating! His reason revolted at it. He had been a respecter of himself, a respecter of his own will; but what sort of a machine was it which could be utterly24 thrown out of gear by a little piece of inflamed25 gristle? He groaned26 and writhed27 among his cushions.
But, after all, was it quite impossible that he should go down to the House? Perhaps the doctor was exaggerating the situation. There was a Cabinet Council that day. He glanced at his watch. It must be nearly over by now. But at least he might perhaps venture to drive down as far as Westminster. He pushed back the little round table with its bristle28 of medicine-bottles, and levering himself up with a hand upon either arm of the chair, he clutched a thick oak stick and hobbled slowly across the room. For a moment as he moved, his energy of mind and body seemed to return to him. The British fleet should sail from Matapan. Pressure should be brought to bear upon the Turks. The Greeks should be shown—Ow! In an instant the Mediterranean29 was blotted30 out, and nothing remained but that huge, undeniable, intrusive31, red-hot toe. He staggered to the window and rested his left hand upon the ledge32, while he propped33 himself upon his stick with his right. Outside lay the bright, cool, square garden, a few well-dressed passers-by, and a single, neatly-appointed carriage, which was driving away from his own door. His quick eye caught the coat-of-arms on the panel, and his lips set for a moment and his bushy eyebrows34 gathered ominously35 with a deep furrow36 between them. He hobbled back to his seat and struck the gong which stood upon the table.
“Your mistress!” said he as the serving-man entered.
It was clear that it was impossible to think of going to the House. The shooting up his leg warned him that his doctor had not overestimated37 the situation. But he had a little mental worry now which had for the moment eclipsed his physical ailments38. He tapped the ground impatiently with his stick until the door of the dressing-room swung open, and a tall, elegant lady of rather more than middle age swept into the chamber39. Her hair was touched with grey, but her calm, sweet face had all the freshness of youth, and her gown of green shot plush, with a sparkle of gold passementerie at her bosom40 and shoulders, showed off the lines of her fine figure to their best advantage.
“You sent for me, Charles?”
“Whose carriage was that which drove away just now?”
“Oh, you’ve been up!” she cried, shaking an admonitory forefinger41. “What an old dear it is! How can you be so rash? What am I to say to Sir William when he comes? You know that he gives up his cases when they are insubordinate.”
“In this instance the case may give him up,” said the Minister, peevishly42; “but I must beg, Clara, that you will answer my question.”
“Oh! the carriage! It must have been Lord Arthur Sibthorpe’s.”
“I saw the three chevrons43 upon the panel,” muttered the invalid44.
His lady had pulled herself a little straighter and opened her large blue eyes.
“Then why ask?” she said. “One might almost think, Charles, that you were laying a trap! Did you expect that I should deceive you? You have not had your lithia powder.”
“For Heaven’s sake, leave it alone! I asked because I was surprised that Lord Arthur should call here. I should have fancied, Clara, that I had made myself sufficiently45 clear on that point. Who received him?”
“I did. That is, I and Ida.”
“I will not have him brought into contact with Ida. I do not approve of it. The matter has gone too far already.”
Lady Clara seated herself on a velvet47-topped footstool, and bent48 her stately figure over the Minister’s hand, which she patted softly between her own.
“Now you have said it, Charles,” said she. “It has gone too far—I give you my word, dear, that I never suspected it until it was past all mending. I may be to blame—no doubt I am; but it was all so sudden. The tail end of the season and a week at Lord Donnythorne’s. That was all. But oh! Charlie, she loves him so, and she is our only one! How can we make her miserable49?”
“Tut, tut!” cried the Minister impatiently, slapping on the plush arm of his chair. “This is too much. I tell you, Clara, I give you my word, that all my official duties, all the affairs of this great empire, do not give me the trouble that Ida does.”
“But she is our only one, Charles.”
“The more reason that she should not make a mesalliance.”
“Mesalliance, Charles! Lord Arthur Sibthorpe, son of the Duke of Tavistock, with a pedigree from the Heptarchy. Debrett takes them right back to Morcar, Earl of Northumberland.”
The Minister shrugged50 his shoulders.
“Lord Arthur is the fourth son of the poorest duke in England,” said he. “He has neither prospects51 nor profession.”
“But, oh! Charlie, you could find him both.”
“I do not like him. I do not care for the connection.”
“But consider Ida! You know how frail52 her health is. Her whole soul is set upon him. You would not have the heart, Charles, to separate them?”
There was a tap at the door. Lady Clara swept towards it and threw it open.
“Yes, Thomas?”
“If you please, my lady, the Prime Minister is below.”
“Show him up, Thomas.”
“Now, Charlie, you must not excite yourself over public matters. Be very good and cool and reasonable, like a darling. I am sure that I may trust you.”
She threw her light shawl round the invalid’s shoulders, and slipped away into the bed-room as the great man was ushered53 in at the door of the dressing-room.
“My dear Charles,” said he cordially, stepping into the room with all the boyish briskness55 for which he was famous, “I trust that you find yourself a little better. Almost ready for harness, eh? We miss you sadly, both in the House and in the Council. Quite a storm brewing56 over this Grecian business. The Times took a nasty line this morning.”
“So I saw,” said the invalid, smiling up at his chief. “Well, well, we must let them see that the country is not entirely57 ruled from Printing House Square yet. We must keep our own course without faltering58.”
“Certainly, Charles, most undoubtedly,” assented59 the Prime Minister, with his hands in his pockets.
“It was so kind of you to call. I am all impatience to know what was done in the Council.”
“Pure formalities, nothing more. By-the-way, the Macedonian prisoners are all right.”
“Thank Goodness for that!”
“We adjourned60 all other business until we should have you with us next week. The question of a dissolution begins to press. The reports from the provinces are excellent.”
The Foreign Minister moved impatiently and groaned.
“We must really straighten up our foreign business a little,” said he. “I must get Novikoff’s Note answered. It is clever, but the fallacies are obvious. I wish, too, we could clear up the Afghan frontier. This illness is most exasperating61. There is so much to be done, but my brain is clouded. Sometimes I think it is the gout, and sometimes I put it down to the colchicum.”
“What will our medical autocrat62 say?” laughed the Prime Minister. “You are so irreverent, Charles. With a bishop63 one may feel at one’s ease. They are not beyond the reach of argument. But a doctor with his stethoscope and thermometer is a thing apart. Your reading does not impinge upon him. He is serenely64 above you. And then, of course, he takes you at a disadvantage. With health and strength one might cope with him. Have you read Hahnemann? What are your views upon Hahnemann?”
The invalid knew his illustrious colleague too well to follow him down any of those by-paths of knowledge in which he delighted to wander. To his intensely shrewd and practical mind there was something repellent in the waste of energy involved in a discussion upon the Early Church or the twenty-seven principles of Mesmer. It was his custom to slip past such conversational65 openings with a quick step and an averted66 face.
“I have hardly glanced at his writings,” said he. “By-the-way, I suppose that there was no special departmental news?”
“Ah! I had almost forgotten. Yes, it was one of the things which I had called to tell you. Sir Algernon Jones has resigned at Tangier. There is a vacancy67 there.”
“It had better be filled at once. The longer delay the more applicants68.”
“Ah, patronage69, patronage!” sighed the Prime Minister. “Every vacancy makes one doubtful friend and a dozen very positive enemies. Who so bitter as the disappointed place-seeker? But you are right, Charles. Better fill it at once, especially as there is some little trouble in Morocco. I understand that the Duke of Tavistock would like the place for his fourth son, Lord Arthur Sibthorpe. We are under some obligation to the Duke.”
The Foreign Minister sat up eagerly.
“My dear friend,” he said, “it is the very appointment which I should have suggested. Lord Arthur would be very much better in Tangier at present than in—in——”
“Cavendish Square?” hazarded his chief, with a little arch query70 of his eyebrows.
“Well, let us say London. He has manner and tact46. He was at Constantinople in Norton’s time.”
“Then he talks Arabic?”
“A smattering. But his French is good.”
“Speaking of Arabic, Charles, have you dipped into Averroes?”
“No, I have not. But the appointment would be an excellent one in every way. Would you have the great goodness to arrange the matter in my absence?”
“Certainly, Charles, certainly. Is there anything else that I can do?”
“No. I hope to be in the House by Monday.”
“I trust so. We miss you at every turn. The Times will try to make mischief71 over that Grecian business. A leader-writer is a terribly irresponsible thing, Charles. There is no method by which he may be confuted, however preposterous72 his assertions. Good-bye! Read Porson! Goodbye!”
He shook the invalid’s hand, gave a jaunty73 wave of his broad-brimmed hat, and darted74 out of the room with the same elasticity75 and energy with which he had entered it.
The footman had already opened the great folding door to usher54 the illustrious visitor to his carriage, when a lady stepped from the drawing-room and touched him on the sleeve. From behind the half-closed portiere of stamped velvet a little pale face peeped out, half-curious, half-frightened.
“May I have one word?”
“Surely, Lady Clara.”
“I hope it is not intrusive. I would not for the world overstep the limits——”
“My dear Lady Clara!” interrupted the Prime Minister, with a youthful bow and wave.
“Pray do not answer me if I go too far. But I know that Lord Arthur Sibthorpe has applied76 for Tangier. Would it be a liberty if I asked you what chance he has?”
“The post is filled up.”
“Oh!”
In the foreground and background there was a disappointed face.
“And Lord Arthur has it.”
The Prime Minister chuckled77 over his little piece of roguery.
“We have just decided78 it,” he continued.
“Lord Arthur must go in a week. I am delighted to perceive, Lady Clara, that the appointment has your approval. Tangier is a place of extraordinary interest. Catherine of Braganza and Colonel Kirke will occur to your memory. Burton has written well upon Northern Africa. I dine at Windsor, so I am sure that you will excuse my leaving you. I trust that Lord Charles will be better. He can hardly fail to be so with such a nurse.”
He bowed, waved, and was off down the steps to his brougham. As he drove away, Lady Clara could see that he was already deeply absorbed in a paper-covered novel.
She pushed back the velvet curtains, and returned into the drawing-room. Her daughter stood in the sunlight by the window, tall, fragile, and exquisite79, her features and outline not unlike her mother’s, but frailer80, softer, more delicate. The golden light struck one half of her high-bred, sensitive face, and glimmered81 upon her thickly-coiled flaxen hair, striking a pinkish tint82 from her closely-cut costume of fawn-coloured cloth with its dainty cinnamon ruchings. One little soft frill of chiffon nestled round her throat, from which the white, graceful83 neck and well-poised head shot up like a lily amid moss84. Her thin white hands were pressed together, and her blue eyes turned beseechingly85 upon her mother.
“Silly girl! Silly girl!” said the matron, answering that imploring86 look. She put her hands upon her daughter’s sloping shoulders and drew her towards her. “It is a very nice place for a short time. It will be a stepping stone.”
“But oh! mamma, in a week! Poor Arthur!”
“He will be happy.”
“What! happy to part?”
“He need not part. You shall go with him.”
“Oh! mamma!”
“Yes, I say it.”
“Oh! mamma, in a week?”
“Yes indeed. A great deal may be done in a week. I shall order your trousseau to-day.”
“Oh! you dear, sweet angel! But I am so frightened! And papa? Oh! dear, I am so frightened!”
“Your papa is a diplomatist, dear.”
“Yes, ma.”
“But, between ourselves, he married a diplomatist too. If he can manage the British Empire, I think that I can manage him, Ida. How long have you been engaged, child?”
“Ten weeks, mamma.”
“Then it is quite time it came to a head. Lord Arthur cannot leave England without you. You must go to Tangier as the Minister’s wife. Now, you will sit there on the settee, dear, and let me manage entirely. There is Sir William’s carriage! I do think that I know how to manage Sir William. James, just ask the doctor to step in this way!”
A heavy, two-horsed carriage had drawn87 up at the door, and there came a single stately thud upon the knocker. An instant afterwards the drawing-room door flew open and the footman ushered in the famous physician. He was a small man, clean-shaven, with the old-fashioned black dress and white cravat88 with high-standing collar. He swung his golden pince-nez in his right hand as he walked, and bent forward with a peering, blinking expression, which was somehow suggestive of the dark and complex cases through which he had seen.
“Ah,” said he, as he entered. “My young patient! I am glad of the opportunity.”
“Yes, I wish to speak to you about her, Sir William. Pray take this arm-chair.”
“Thank you, I will sit beside her,” said he, taking his place upon the settee. “She is looking better, less anaemic unquestionably, and a fuller pulse. Quite a little tinge89 of colour, and yet not hectic90.”
“I feel stronger, Sir William.”
“But she still has the pain in the side.”
“Ah, that pain!” He tapped lightly under the collar-bones, and then bent forward with his biaural stethoscope in either ear. “Still a trace of dulness—still a slight crepitation,” he murmured.
“You spoke91 of a change, doctor.”
“Yes, certainly a judicious92 change might be advisable.”
“You said a dry climate. I wish to do to the letter what you recommend.”
“You have always been model patients.”
“We wish to be. You said a dry climate.”
“Did I? I rather forget the particulars of our conversation. But a dry climate is certainly indicated.”
“Which one?”
“Well, I think really that a patient should be allowed some latitude93. I must not exact too rigid94 discipline. There is room for individual choice—the Engadine, Central Europe, Egypt, Algiers, which you like.”
“I hear that Tangier is also recommended.”
“Oh, yes, certainly; it is very dry.”
“You hear, Ida? Sir William says that you are to go to Tangier.”
“Or any——”
“No, no, Sir William! We feel safest when we are most obedient. You have said Tangier, and we shall certainly try Tangier.”
“Really, Lady Clara, your implicit95 faith is most flattering. It is not everyone who would sacrifice their own plans and inclinations96 so readily.”
“We know your skill and your experience, Sir William. Ida shall try Tangier. I am convinced that she will be benefited.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“But you know Lord Charles. He is just a little inclined to decide medical matters as he would an affair of State. I hope that you will be firm with him.”
“As long as Lord Charles honours me so far as to ask my advice I am sure that he would not place me in the false position of having that advice disregarded.”
The medical baronet whirled round the cord of his pince-nez and pushed out a protesting hand.
“No, no, but you must be firm on the point of Tangier.”
“Having deliberately97 formed the opinion that Tangier is the best place for our young patient, I do not think that I shall readily change my conviction.”
“Of course not.”
“I shall speak to Lord Charles upon the subject now when I go upstairs.”
“Pray do.”
“And meanwhile she will continue her present course of treatment. I trust that the warm African air may send her back in a few months with all her energy restored.”
He bowed in the courteous98, sweeping99, old-world fashion which had done so much to build up his ten thousand a year, and, with the stealthy gait of a man whose life is spent in sick-rooms, he followed the footman upstairs.
As the red velvet curtains swept back into position, the Lady Ida threw her arms round her mother’s neck and sank her face on to her bosom.
“Oh! mamma, you ARE a diplomatist!” she cried.
But her mother’s expression was rather that of the general who looked upon the first smoke of the guns than of one who had won the victory.
“All will be right, dear,” said she, glancing down at the fluffy100 yellow curls and tiny ear. “There is still much to be done, but I think we may venture to order the trousseau.”
“Oh I how brave you are!”
“Of course, it will in any case be a very quiet affair. Arthur must get the license101. I do not approve of hole-and-corner marriages, but where the gentleman has to take up an official position some allowance must be made. We can have Lady Hilda Edgecombe, and the Trevors, and the Grevilles, and I am sure that the Prime Minister would run down if he could.”
“And papa?”
“Oh, yes; he will come too, if he is well enough. We must wait until Sir William goes, and, meanwhile, I shall write to Lord Arthur.”
Half an hour had passed, and quite a number of notes had been dashed off in the fine, bold, park-paling handwriting of the Lady Clara, when the door clashed, and the wheels of the doctor’s carriage were heard grating outside against the kerb. The Lady Clara laid down her pen, kissed her daughter, and started off for the sick-room. The Foreign Minister was lying back in his chair, with a red silk handkerchief over his forehead, and his bulbous, cotton-wadded foot still protruding102 upon its rest.
“I think it is almost liniment time,” said Lady Clara, shaking a blue crinkled bottle. “Shall I put on a little?”
“Oh! this pestilent toe!” groaned the sufferer. “Sir William won’t hear of my moving yet. I do think he is the most completely obstinate103 and pig-headed man that I have ever met. I tell him that he has mistaken his profession, and that I could find him a post at Constantinople. We need a mule104 out there.”
“Poor Sir William!” laughed Lady Clara. “But how has he roused your wrath?”
“He is so persistent105-so dogmatic.”
“Upon what point?”
“Well, he has been laying down the law about Ida. He has decreed, it seems, that she is to go to Tangier.”
“He said something to that effect before he went up to you.”
“Oh, he did, did he?”
The slow-moving, inscrutable eye came sliding round to her.
Lady Clara’s face had assumed an expression of transparent106 obvious innocence107, an intrusive candour which is never seen in nature save when a woman is bent upon deception108.
“He examined her lungs, Charles. He did not say much, but his expression was very grave.”
“Not to say owlish,” interrupted the Minister.
“No, no, Charles; it is no laughing matter. He said that she must have a change. I am sure that he thought more than he said. He spoke of dulness and crepitation, and the effects of the African air. Then the talk turned upon dry, bracing109 health resorts, and he agreed that Tangier was the place. He said that even a few months there would work a change.”
“And that was all?”
“Yes, that was all.”
Lord Charles shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who is but half convinced.
“But of course,” said Lady Clara, serenely, “if you think it better that Ida should not go she shall not. The only thing is that if she should get worse we might feel a little uncomfortable afterwards. In a weakness of that sort a very short time may make a difference. Sir William evidently thought the matter critical. Still, there is no reason why he should influence you. It is a little responsibility, however. If you take it all upon yourself and free me from any of it, so that afterwards——”
“My dear Clara, how you do croak110!”
“Oh! I don’t wish to do that, Charles. But you remember what happened to Lord Bellamy’s child. She was just Ida’s age. That was another case in which Sir William’s advice was disregarded.”
Lord Charles groaned impatiently.
“I have not disregarded it,” said he.
“No, no, of course not. I know your strong sense, and your good heart too well, dear. You were very wisely looking at both sides of the question. That is what we poor women cannot do. It is emotion against reason, as I have often heard you say. We are swayed this way and that, but you men are persistent, and so you gain your way with us. But I am so pleased that you have decided for Tangier.”
“Have I?”
“Well, dear, you said that you would not disregard Sir William.”
“Well, Clara, admitting that Ida is to go to Tangier, you will allow that it is impossible for me to escort her?
“Utterly.”
“And for you?
“While you are ill my place is by your side.”
“There is your sister?”
“She is going to Florida.”
“Lady Dumbarton, then?”
“She is nursing her father. It is out of the question.”
“Well, then, whom can we possibly ask? Especially just as the season is commencing. You see, Clara, the fates fight against Sir William.”
His wife rested her elbows against the back of the great red chair, and passed her fingers through the statesman’s grizzled curls, stooping down as she did so until her lips were close to his ear.
“There is Lord Arthur Sibthorpe,” said she softly.
Lord Charles bounded in his chair, and muttered a word or two such as were more frequently heard from Cabinet Ministers in Lord Melbourne’s time than now.
“Are you mad, Clara!” he cried. “What can have put such a thought into your head?”
“The Prime Minister.”
“Who? The Prime Minister?”
“Yes, dear. Now do, do be good! Or perhaps I had better not speak to you about it any more.”
“Well, I really think that you have gone rather too far to retreat.”
“It was the Prime Minister, then, who told me that Lord Arthur was going to Tangier.”
“It is a fact, though it had escaped my memory for the instant.”
“And then came Sir William with his advice about Ida. Oh! Charlie, it is surely more than a coincidence!”
“I am convinced,” said Lord Charles, with his shrewd, questioning gaze, “that it is very much more than a coincidence, Lady Clara. You are a very clever woman, my dear. A born manager and organiser.”
Lady Clara brushed past the compliment.
“Think of our own young days, Charlie,” she whispered, with her fingers still toying with his hair. “What were you then? A poor man, not even Ambassador at Tangier. But I loved you, and believed in you, and have I ever regretted it? Ida loves and believes in Lord Arthur, and why should she ever regret it either?”
Lord Charles was silent. His eyes were fixed111 upon the green branches which waved outside the window; but his mind had flashed back to a Devonshire country-house of thirty years ago, and to the one fateful evening when, between old yew112 hedges, he paced along beside a slender girl, and poured out to her his hopes, his fears, and his ambitious. He took the white, thin hand and pressed it to his lips.
“You, have been a good wife to me, Clara,” said he.
She said nothing. She did not attempt to improve upon her advantage. A less consummate113 general might have tried to do so, and ruined all. She stood silent and submissive, noting the quick play of thought which peeped from his eyes and lip. There was a sparkle in the one and a twitch114 of amusement in the other, as he at last glanced up at her.
“Clara,” said he, “deny it if you can! You have ordered the trousseau.”
She gave his ear a little pinch.
“Subject to your approval,” said she.
“You have written to the Archbishop.”
“It is not posted yet.”
“You have sent a note to Lord Arthur.”
“How could you tell that?”
“He is downstairs now.”
“No; but I think that is his brougham.”
Lord Charles sank back with a look of half-comical despair.
“Who is to fight against such a woman?” he cried. “Oh! if I could send you to Novikoff! He is too much for any of my men. But, Clara, I cannot have them up here.”
“Not for your blessing115?”
“No, no!”
“It would make them so happy.”
“I cannot stand scenes.”
“Then I shall convey it to them.”
“And pray say no more about it—to-day, at any rate. I have been weak over the matter.”
“Oh! Charlie, you who are so strong!”
“You have outflanked me, Clara. It was very well done. I must congratulate you.”
“Well,” she murmured, as she kissed him, “you know I have been studying a very clever diplomatist for thirty years.”
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omniscience
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opposition
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harassed
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sputtered
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upwards
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admiration
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continental
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diplomacy
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chafe
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bereft
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chancellor
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worthy
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cape
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exorbitant
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ransom
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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21
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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22
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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23
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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24
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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25
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
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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27
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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29
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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30
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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31
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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32
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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33
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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35
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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36
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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37
overestimated
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| 对（数量）估计过高，对…作过高的评价( overestimate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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39
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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40
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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41
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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42
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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43
chevrons
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| n.（警察或士兵所佩带以示衔级的）∧形或∨形标志( chevron的名词复数 ) | |
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44
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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45
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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46
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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47
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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48
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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49
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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50
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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52
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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53
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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55
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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56
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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57
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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58
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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59
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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62
autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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63
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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64
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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65
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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66
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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67
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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68
applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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69
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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70
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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71
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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72
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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73
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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74
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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75
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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76
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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77
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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79
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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80
frailer
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| 脆弱的( frail的比较级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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81
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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83
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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84
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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85
beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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86
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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87
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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88
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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89
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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90
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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91
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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92
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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93
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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94
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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95
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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96
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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97
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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98
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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99
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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100
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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101
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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102
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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103
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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104
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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105
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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106
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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107
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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108
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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109
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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110
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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111
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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112
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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113
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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114
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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115
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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