Her costume now for the second act of the brilliant revue in which her success had been almost phenomenal, was practically completed. She wore still a rose-coloured dressing-gown over garments not remarkable7 for their prodigality8, and though the evening papers, a French novel, a little volume of poetry sent from the author, and a box of Russian cigarettes stood at her elbow, she still continued to gaze a little abstractedly at the reflection of her own features in the looking-glass. London had found her beautiful, seductive, vivacious9. She was all of these. Her dark and beautifully-set eyes restrained their gleam of natural violet notwithstanding the encompassment10 of stage make-up. No rouge11 could conceal12 the pearly brilliancy of her complexion13, no cake of powder the charming lines of her mouth. It was not at these things, however, that she looked. Her eyes were fixed14 steadily15 upon the roots of her blue-black hair, drawn16 back from her forehead in a manner peculiar17 to herself. She even raised the tiny magnifying glass on the table before her, to concentrate her regard, and there was in her face almost at that moment a shadow, as though some faint foreboding was hovering18 over her, even in these halcyon19 days of her great triumph.
She laid the magnifying glass down.
'It is impossible,' she murmured to herself, stretching out her hand for a cigarette.
There was a knock at the door. Her maid came softly in—an elderly woman in prim21 black, softly-shod and with the art of moving noiselessly. She carried a card in her hand, which she presented to her mistress.
'Madame,' she announced, 'this gentleman desires the favour of a word with you.'
Félanie stretched out her hand.
'You know so well, Marie,' she complained. 'that I receive here only those who need send no card. Give him my address, if it is a gentleman from the Press.'
'I thought madame would prefer to see this gentleman,' the maid said quietly.
Still with a queer reluctance22, Félanie took the card into her white fingers. Before she glanced at it she knew very well what name she would find written there, and she hated the knowledge. The black letters stared up at her—
Mr. Ambrose Lavendale,
17 Sackville Street.
Félanie turned her head slowly and looked upwards23 at her maid. The woman's face, however, was blank.
'The gentleman is doubtless known to Mr. Wiltshaw,' the latter continued. 'He secured the entrée here without difficulty. He waits now in the passage.'
'You can show him in,' her mistress ordered.
There were a few seconds during which another woman looked into that gaily-hung mirror, and another reflection appeared there. The mouth was no longer seductive, but grim. The eyes were no longer insolent24, half challenging conquest, half promising25 tenderness, but seemed, indeed, to have receded26 a little, to be filled with the shrinking light of fear. The transition was extraordinary and complete. Here sat a terrified woman, face to face with some evil thing!
Then there came a knock at the door. As with the touch of her fingers upon the switch the gloom of the room was changed into brilliant light, so Félanie almost miraculously27 recovered herself. She swung round in her dainty revolving28 chair. Her lips, even, fell naturally and easily into the lines of her most seductive smile. What fear there was at the woman's heart showed itself no longer in her face.
'Monsieur Lavendale—Monsieur Ambrose Lavendale, is it not?' she added, with a momentary29 glance at the card. 'You wish to see me?
Lavendale came a little further into the room and bowed. At a glance from her mistress, the maid softly withdrew, closing the door. In his severely30 simple evening clothes, Lavendale seemed in that little room to be taller even than his six feet two. Félanie, who had risen to her feet, felt herself suddenly dominated.
'Madame,' Lavendale said, 'I have ventured to present myself in order to renew a very delightful31 acquaintance.'
She played the game bravely.
'But, monsieur,' she protested, 'I have not the pleasure of knowing you.'
He sighed.
'It is, alas32! then, your memory, madame, which is at fault.'
'Or yours?' she queried33 softly.
He shook his head.
'Those who have had the privilege of knowing the lady who calls herself now Madame Félanie, could make no mistake.'
'Yet it seems,' she persisted, acknowledging his courtesy with a smile, 'that that is what has happened. You are gallant34, monsieur, but there are so many of us upon the stage who resemble one another.'
He shook his head with a self-confidence which she hated.
'There is no man in this world,' he declared, 'who could fail to recognize Adèle Goetz, even under the guise35 of Madame Félanie. May I congratulate you upon your great success? Your revue, they tell me, will run for ever.'
'You are very kind,' she said, her knees beginning to tremble a little, 'but indeed you are mistaken. My name is Elaine Félanie. It is my own name. I came from the Odéon. I am so well-known in Paris. This lady of whom you speak perhaps resembled me.'
Lavendale did not for a moment reply. His face had become a shade graver, his grey eyes held hers.
'Is there, then, a reason, madame,' he asked, 'why Adèle Goetz preferred to disappear and Madame Félanie to rise from her ashes? Am I not one of those who could be trusted? My memories of Mademoiselle Adèle are too delightful for me to bear anything but good-will towards Madame Félanie.'
She stood for a moment quite still. Her brain was working quickly. After all, the man was an American. She looked at him a little doubtfully. He smiled—and she yielded. She gave him both her hands.
'Monsieur Ambrose,' she said, 'it can go on no longer. I thought myself an actress but you have conquered. You are my friend?'
'Your devoted36 friend,' he assured her.
'You can imagine, then, why here in England it is Elaine Félanie alone who exists?'
'Adèle Goetz, if I remember rightly,' he replied, 'was of German birth.'
She glanced almost nervously37 around her. He went on without pause.
'So far as that simple fact is concerned,' he continued, 'you will not—you need have no fear of my discretion38.'
She gave him her hands again and this time there was more of invitation in her gesture.
'You were always kind to me,' she murmured. 'We shall see something of one another now, is it not so?'
He shook his head.
'Alas! no, madame,' he sighed. 'I am engaged to be married.'
'And mademoiselle is jealous?' she inquired, with a little pout39.
'There is no woman in the world,' he told her, 'who would not be jealous of Madame Félanie.'
She laughed at him with something of her old gaiety, threw herself back in her chair and passed him the cigarettes.
'We have a few minutes longer, at least,' she pleaded, 'before we make our pathetic farewells. You have not lost the gift of saying pleasant things, Ambrose.'
'Nor you, Adèle, the art of inspiring them,' he replied.
'Oh, là, là!' she exclaimed lightly. 'Tell me of your life here in London? Tell me why you came to renew our acquaintance if it is to be only a matter of this one visit?'
He had refused her offer of a chair and the cigarette, still unlit, was between his fingers.
'Yes, I will tell you that,' he said. 'You read, without a doubt, of the sinking of the Marabic?'
She shrugged40 her shoulders.
'Who has talked of anything else in London these few days?'
'I was amongst the saved,' he continued, 'I and the young lady to whom I am engaged to be married. We were in the last boat that left the ship and lost everything except the clothes we stood up in. That circumstance has, to a certain extent, changed my outlook upon this struggle.'
There was the slightest of frowns upon her velvet41 brow. She waited. He had the air of one, however, who has concluded all he has to say. He turned towards the door. She stopped him with an imperative42 gesture.
'You have not given me the promise I desire—I demand?' she cried. 'Monsieur Ambrose, you will not leave me like this?'
'That promise,' he said gravely, 'is yours—conditionally43.'
His departure was a little abrupt44 and her gesture to recall him too late. She sat for a moment thinking, a curious shadow upon her face. Then she touched the bell.
'Ask Monsieur Anders to spare me a moment,' she directed her maid.
There was a brief interval45, then the sound of a cheerful whistling outside. The door was opened and Monsieur Anders himself appeared. He was a small man with a strangely-lined face, a mouth whose humour triumphed even over his plastic make-up. He was attired46 with great magnificence in the costume of a beau of the last century. His fingers glittered with rings, lace cuffs47 fell over his wrists and a little waft48 of peculiar perfume entered with him. It was not for nothing that for many years he had been considered upon the French stage the embodiment of a certain type of elegance49.
'You have had a visitor, chérie?' he remarked.
'I have,' she replied. 'Shut the door.'
He obeyed at once. From outside came the voice of the stage carpenter, the occasional rumbling50 of scenery, the music of the orchestra, the murmur20 now and then of applause. The curtain was up upon a fresh scene in the revue.
'Mysterious?' Anders murmured.
Suddenly, even as the word passed his lips, apprehension51 seemed to seize him. He remained for a moment dumb and motionless. Then he, too, glanced around before he leaned towards her.
'It is trouble?'
'Perhaps not,' she answered. 'One cannot tell. A young American has been to see me. He is one of the few who would remember. We were friends in Paris nine years ago. He was a boy then, but, notwithstanding everything, he recognized me.'
'An American,' Anders muttered. 'Better that than an Englishman! Well?'
'He was serving his apprenticeship52 in the American Diplomatic Service in those days,' she went on. 'What he is doing now I do not know, except that he and the girl whom he is engaged to marry, were amongst survivors53 from the Marabic. He went out of his way to pay me a visit here, just to tell me that he recognized me, and he made it plain that although he is not an Englishman, he is in sympathy with them.'
'Did he threaten?' Anders asked quickly.
'No,' she replied, 'and yet he terrified me. He promised silence—conditionally.'
'Conditionally? How?'
'He left that for me to understand. I am still puzzled. He does not want to see me any more—he took pains to tell me that he was engaged to be married. Yet underneath54 his manner I seemed to discover a threat.'
Anders stood perfectly55 still for a moment. Underneath all the paint and make-up of his face, he was suddenly haggard.
'Is it worth it, Henri?' she faltered56. 'Why not America at once, and safety? We could get a great engagement there.'
He stood biting his nails, agitated57.
'There is this last affair to be carried through,' he reminded her. 'And the money—think of it! How can one live without money!'
'Our salaries,' she murmured.
'Pooh! What man with my tastes could live on any salary?'
'Is it worth while to trifle with life and death?' she asked him bluntly. 'It is a warning, this, Henri.'
The call-boy's voice was suddenly heard.
'Monsieur Anders! Monsieur Anders!'
The Frenchman turned mechanically towards the door.
'You have destroyed my nerve,' he muttered. 'You have perhaps ruined my performance. Afterwards we will see.' ...
It was 'French Night' at Luigi's Restaurant, a gala night even in those strenuous war days. Every table in the place was taken, and others had been wheeled in. The waiters made their way about with difficulty. Bohemia and the sycophantic58 scions59 of fashion sat arm in arm. The grimmer duties of patriotism60 were for a moment forgotten. Its other claims met with ample recognition. Félanie sang the 'Marseillaise' twice amidst a scene of wild applause. A great French actress from the legitimate61 stage had recited a patriotic62 ode. The flags on the tables had been sold for absurd sums by a sympathetic duke who should clearly have been an auctioneer. A hundred messages of sympathy, of love, of faith, were sent across the wineglasses to the country whom it was designed to honour. Back in their corner, Lavendale and Suzanne looked on curiously63. Once Lavendale drank a little toast with his companion.
'This,' he murmured,' is to our fuller alliance.'
She drank with him, although she seemed a little puzzled.
'Listen, dear,' he went on, 'there is just one little thing I'd like to say to you to-night. You and I have helped one another at times, but there has always been a certain reserve. I told you months ago that I was for America above all things, and America only. To-day I feel differently. I have been a witness—you and I together—of foul64 and brutal65 murder. I have seen women drowned, have heard their shrieks66. America may keep the peace with Germany. It may be in the interests of the highest diplomacy67 that she should. As for me, I am at war with Germany. I am your ally.'
Her fingers rested upon his.
'Then there is some good,' she whispered, 'which has come out of that great and abominable68 evil.'
'A very small good,' he said, 'but it may count. Tell me, do you know who that fair, almost sandy young man is, sitting at the table with Félanie and her friends?'
'Of course,' she answered. 'That is Lenwade, the great flying man.'
She dropped her voice suddenly. The young man had risen from his chair, and, in the act of passing down the room to speak to some acquaintances, paused before their table. He bowed to Suzanne and held out his hand to Lavendale. They were old acquaintances and spoke69 for some time on indifferent subjects.
'What have you been doing with yourself lately?' Lavendale inquired.
'Not much flying,' the other confessed. 'I have been down giving lessons and breaking in a lot of the youngsters, but I can't stick it myself as I used to. Plays the devil with your nerves.'
'Rubbish!' Lavendale laughed. 'You haven't a nerve in your body.'
'Haven't I?' the other replied. 'I remember the time when I could say that. I'd give anything to be at the front now if I felt equal to it, or if my doctor would let me.'
Lavendale smiled, and glanced around to be sure that his neighbours were not listening.
'What were you doing at Ypres the week before last, then?' he asked, dropping his voice a little.
Lenwade for a moment was silent, then he shrugged his shoulders.
'You must have mistaken me for some one else,' he declared. 'Good-night!'
He took his leave a little abruptly70. Lavendale watched him disappear. Then he glanced towards his companion. His face had become graver.
'Let me put a case to you, my fellow conspirator,' he begged.
'I will put one to you instead,' she replied. 'I know for a fact that Philip Lenwade has been in France for two months, flying every day, engaged upon some special task. He denies it to us—quite properly, perhaps—but should he come to places like this, should he drink champagne71 so that he is compelled to hold the table while he stands? It is true that all the world knows of his infatuation for Félanie. She is safe, perhaps—a Frenchwoman and a patriot—yet there is something about it which I do not like. She and Lenwade have been whispering together half the evening, and more than once I have seen Lenwade shake his head and push her away.'
'Supposing Félanie,' he whispered, 'were not a Frenchwoman at all?'
Suzanne said nothing. She waited, watching her companion with wide-open eyes. Lavendale looked down upon the tablecloth72.
'From you,' he continued simply, 'I have no secrets. Nine years ago I knew Félanie in Paris. She went then by the name of Adèle Goetz. She was a German.'
'Go on.'
'I watched her from the box to-night. At first I was oppressed, as I have been before, by some vague sense of familiarity in her gestures. Suddenly—I think it was the way she shrugged her shoulders, one higher than the other—anyhow, something brought it all back to me. That was why I left you, Suzanne. I went to her room. Her flaxen hair has become blue-black, she has altered in many ways but I discovered that I was right.'
'She is a German, posing as a Frenchwoman, in London to-day?' Suzanne exclaimed. 'Why does she run this risk?'
'That is what I have asked myself,' he whispered, 'that and another question—what is her interest in Lenwade? Hush73! We are talking too earnestly. That fellow Anders—they say he is really her husband—watches us. Here comes Luigi. Talk to him for a moment.'
The manager paused at their table and received their compliments on the success of the evening. When he passed on, Félanie had risen as though to go, and Lenwade was arranging her cloak around her shoulders. Anders was still talking to some other members of the company, and friends seated at the great round table in front of the orchestra. Félanie and Lenwade were half-way down the room before the others began to follow. Lavendale rose quickly to his feet.
'Listen,' he said, 'I am going upstairs and shall come down again just far enough, in case I can hear anything. You go through alone and wait for me on the divan. Tell me if those two go away together, and if so, what is their destination.'
They separated at once. A few minutes later Lavendale descended74 from the balcony and stood just out of sight upon the stairs which led into the entrance hall. The little place was full of the hubbub75 of cheerful laughter. On one side, however, Félanie and Lenwade were talking earnestly. Félanie had turned suddenly round to Anders, who had just arrived.
'Mr. Lenwade is going to drive me home,' she announced. 'Au revoir, all you good people!'
There was much handshaking.
'Vive la France, madame,' a young Englishman exclaimed fervently76, as he bent77 over Félanie's fingers, 'and may you, too, live for ever!'
'If one would paint France, madame,' a painter murmured, 'I would choose you for the emblematic78 figure.'
There were more compliments, another little burst of patriotic fervour. Some one even struck up a few bars of the 'Marseillaise' as Félanie and her escort disappeared. Lavendale descended the last few stairs and elbowed his way good-humouredly through the group. He took Suzanne by the arm.
'Well?' he whispered, as he led her towards the doorway79.
'I am not sure,' she answered under her breath, 'but I think they went to his rooms—number 25 Half Moon Street.'
Lavendale's car was a few minutes delayed. He gave the man the address almost in a whisper. Behind, pushing his way out on to the pavement, was Anders. He watched Lavendale drive off with a slightly disturbed air.
'What are you going to do?' Suzanne asked.
'Make a fool of myself, very likely,' Lavendale replied. 'I am just working out a theory, that's all. She is going back to his rooms. Anders remains80 behind, content, and all the world knows that Anders, whether he is her husband or not, is in love with her and furiously jealous. You see, there must be a reason for her little expedition. She is hoping to fetch something.'
'Where are we going?'
'To his rooms,' Lavendale explained. 'Oh! don't look startled, dear. I shall have a very good explanation to offer to Lenwade, even if I break in upon the most ordinary amour.'
They were in Half Moon Street within a few minutes. Just as Lavendale's car slackened speed, Félanie issued from the door of number 25, and, looking neither to the right nor to the left, sprang into a waiting taxicab and drove off. Lavendale leaped out on to the pavement.
'Follow her, Suzanne,' he directed. 'I hope to God she's going straight home! If not, you must find out where she does go. I'll come in a taxi. I must see Lenwade first.'
He whispered a direction to the chauffeur81, passed through the door of number 25, rang for an automatic lift and ascended82 to the second storey. Leaning over the banisters, as the lift stopped, was Lenwade. He gazed at his visitor in amazement83.
'What the mischief84 are you doing here, old fellow?' he asked thickly.
'Whom are you looking for?' Lavendale retorted.
'Madame Félanie,' the other confessed. 'She has gone down to fetch her vanity case from the cab. Can't think why she doesn't come back.'
Lavendale pushed him suddenly back into his room and closed the door.
'You idiot!' he thundered. 'She isn't coming back! Now pull yourself together, do you hear? Listen to me. You're half drunk, but I am going to tell you something that ought to sober you. That woman Félanie is a born German, and a spy. What have you given her?'
Even through the bluster85 of his stormy denial, Lenwade was obviously shaken.
'What bally rot!' he exclaimed. 'She's a Frenchwoman to her finger-tips. They all love her. Didn't you hear her sing—Marseillaise? Frenchwoman to her finger——'
'Shut up!' Lavendale interrupted fiercely. 'I tell you I knew her nine years ago under another name. She is a German, and it's my belief she's a spy, she and Anders. What have they worked on you? Out with it, man!'
Lenwade swayed on his feet. He looked back across his shoulder to a roll-top writing desk which stood open. Then he snatched up a tumbler from the table by his side, filled it with soda-water and drank it off.
'Lavendale, you're not in earnest!'
'In God's own earnest, man! Quick, if you want to repair the mischief you've done, tell me what you gave her?'
'I've lent her my plans,' Lenwade faltered. 'I've been two months making them, up above the clouds. I'm the only real draughtsman amongst those who can keep high enough—plans of the German fortifications and the railways behind, from the coast beyond where our lines touch the French. I say, Lavendale——!'
There was no Lavendale. He sprang down the stairs three at a time, out into the street and at a double into Piccadilly, where he sprang into a passing taxicab.
'Milan! Look sharp!' he ordered.
The man drove swiftly through the half-empty streets. With a little gasp86 of relief Lavendale recognized his own car waiting in the courtyard. Without a pause, however, he pushed open the swing doors of the Court and leaned over the counter towards the night porter.
'What is Madame Félanie's number?' he asked.
'Sixty-four, sir,' the man replied, glancing dubiously87 at Lavendale. 'Monsieur Anders is up there now, however.'
Lavendale stepped into the lift, ascended to the third floor, hurried down the dimly-lit corridor and paused outside the door of number sixty-four. He listened for a moment. Inside he could hear voices. Then he pressed the bell. There was a moment's hesitation88, then Anders' voice speaking in French.
'Lenwade, perhaps.'
He heard Félanie's scornful little laugh, the flutter of her garments as she crossed the room. The door was suddenly opened and she stood there, looking out at him. She gazed at this unexpected visitor and the colour slowly faded from her cheeks and the light from her eyes. Lavendale made his way firmly across the threshold and closed the door. Félanie caught at her throat.
'What do you want here, sir?' Anders demanded.
Lavendale pushed them both back into the sitting-room89. There was an ugly look in the man's face, but Félanie's courage seemed to have deserted90 her. She clutched at the air for a moment and sank into an easy-chair, hiding her face amongst the cushions. Lavendale's hand fell firmly upon the loose sheets of paper strewn over the table.
'These are what I have come for,' he announced, collecting them and thrusting them into his pocket. 'I presume you have had no time to make a copy?'
He glanced searchingly around the apartment. It was obvious that nothing of the sort had been attempted. Anders stole slowly back towards the writing-table, his hand was upon the knob of one of the drawers, but Lavendale suddenly gripped him by the coat collar and swung him almost off his feet.
'Listen,' he said coldly, 'I know nothing of you, Anders, except that it is my belief that you are one of the vermin of the war, a spy selling his own country. The woman there was once my friend. For that reason, if you leave England on Saturday for America, this matter is finished. If either of you remain in London, or make any attempt to cross to Holland, France or any other country, between now and then, something very ugly will happen. You understand?'
Anders' courage had failed him pitifully. Félanie, on the contrary, had recovered herself.
'I have been a fool, perhaps,' she confessed. 'You were just one of the few chances against me. Very well, we go to America on Saturday.'
'But our contract?' Anders faltered. 'The revue? Elaine's success? They have doubled our salaries. London is at her feet.'
'After Saturday,' Lavendale reminded him calmly, 'the best that can happen to you, Anders, is a bandaged forehead and twelve bullets, in the courtyard of the Tower. I will not offend your taste by suggesting——'
Félanie stamped her foot and turned her shoulder contemptuously upon Anders.
'It is finished, Monsieur Lavendale,' she pronounced. 'If there were any bribe91 in the world I could offer you——'
It was her one rather faint-hearted effort and he laughed at the seduction in her eyes.
'You will be watched from this moment until the steamer leaves Liverpool,' he concluded, leaving the room and closing the door behind him....
In the hall he met Lenwade, waiting for the lift, incoherent still but sober. Lavendale drew him out into the courtyard, where Suzanne was still seated in the car.
'Lenwade,' he announced, 'I have your plans. They are safe with me. I shall keep them until to-morrow morning. You can come to me at 17 Sackville Street at ten o'clock. Until then they will be safe.'
'Thank God!' the other murmured. 'How did you manage it?'
Lavendale shook him off a little contemptuously and took his place by Suzanne's side.
'They leave on Saturday for Liverpool,' he told her. 'I hand the care of them, from now until then, over to your branch.'
She pressed his hand and drew a little closer to him.
'My dear ally!' she murmured.
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收听单词发音
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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prodigality
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vivacious
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encompassment
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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conceal
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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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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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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upwards
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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promising
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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conditionally
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| adv. 有条件地 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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sycophantic
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| adj.阿谀奉承的 | |
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scions
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| n.接穗，幼枝( scion的名词复数 )；（尤指富家）子孙 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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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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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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71
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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73
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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74
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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75
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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emblematic
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| adj.象征的，可当标志的；象征性 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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81
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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82
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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84
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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86
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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88
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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89
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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90
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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91
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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