Several hours later Ordham left a card on Countess Tann, and with it a note of thanks. But he did not ask for admittance. It cost him an unaccustomed effort of self-denial to turn from her door when there was a bare possibility of crossing its threshold, but he had reflected that he had no right to take advantage of his chance intimacy7 with a recluse8, nor even of her very marked kindness; moreover, that, having done his duty, it was her privilege to ask him to come another day and drink a cup of tea.
But the days passed and it waxed evident that she had no intention of embracing her opportunity. In ordinary conditions he might have been piqued9, for he was more spoilt than he knew; certainly disappointed. But even he had his worries, and two descended10 upon him the day after his return from Neuschwanstein.
One arrived in the morning mail. It was a request from his tailor to pay a bill of four years’ standing11, a letter whose inexorable business flavour—which seemed to him sheer insolence—left him aghast. It is true that he had received several reminders12 from this necessary but ignominious13 person during the past six months, and tossed them, half read, into his waste-basket. It annoyed him to receive a bill at all, but that the demands of a mere14 machine might increase in firmness, much less hint of “summons,” had never crossed his mind. Until his father’s death four years since, he had rarely read a bill, or even, extravagant15 as he was, suffered remonstrance16 from a parent, who, regretting that his favourite son should not have been his first, made a point of ignoring the fact when he could. Every acre of the large estate was entailed17, Lord Bridgminster’s personal property was small, and there were five sons more to educate and provide for. The oldest son and his father had not met for years, but while there was antipathy18, there was no rancour; and Lord Bridgminster, never being called upon to meet debts for a man who lived the year round in his hunting box, contrived19 to forget him. Disappointed in his second wife, after the glamour20 of her peculiar21 personality had vanished, he devoted22 himself to politics and the son whom he fain would believe must inherit the solid honours as well as the brains of his house. Whenever the boy came home from Eton, and later, from Oxford,—where it rarely occurred to him to open a book,—he was received at Ordham Castle with all the honours and attentions due to the heir, and, had his father lived a year longer, the celebration of his twenty-first birthday would have dimmed the memory of the perfunctory festivities with which the majority of Lord Ordham had been announced to the county. And as it grew to be an accepted fact that the Timon would never marry, the oldest of the second family was so generally recognized as the heir, that, from the servants up, he was visited with no reminders of the long interval23 which might elapse before he could spend the income that went with the titles. Even after his father’s death it was some time before he began to appreciate the difference in his fortunes, for he spent the following summer yachting with a friend, and, a few months later, left Christ Church abruptly24 and went for a tour round the world. He finished in Paris, where, through the influence of his mother, a place had been found for him, unofficially, in the British Embassy. Moreover, Lord Bridgminster had managed to leave him two thousand pounds, and, although this ran away quickly, it served to postpone25 the day when he must reckon with a younger son’s portion.
And he had been brought up in that criminal ignorance of the value of money which has compassed the ruin of so many of the younger members of the British aristocracy. American fathers may live up to the last dollar of the large income they make by the constant turning over of their discrepant26 capital, die bankrupt, or leave nothing but a life insurance to their women; but the sons, no matter how indulged, grow up in the electric atmosphere of a business country; the subject of money and its infinite meanings is never long absent from the conversation about them nor from their minds; they witness the rise and fall of fortunes, the fluctuation27 of incomes, the accidents to which the most cautious are liable; and they live through those periodical rabies of the money market known as panics, which focus the attention of the most careless. Leisure they know to be merely an incident; they realize that, however wise it may be to enjoy life while conditions are favourable28, it is equally wise to keep one’s energies polished and alert. And these energies are born in the blood, which perhaps is the whole point.
There is, save for war and sport, little latent energy in the blood of the young British aristocrat29 whose ancestors have too long been men of leisure. He has no acquaintance with business, and as little premonition of the serious responsibilities of life as of its ugly contacts. Surrounded, sheltered, reared in an atmosphere of plenty, with expensive habits, and self-denial no part of his creed30 (and the sons of peers comparatively poor are no exceptions), he has during his father’s lifetime all the advantages and refinements31 of the concentrated income of the estates that go to the head of the house. Then comes the inevitable32 moment when he is turned adrift, and confronted with the problem of maintaining his legitimate33 position in the world upon a younger son’s pittance34. Readjustment taking place in few characters except at the conclusion of a series of shocks, and as often not then, he goes on spending mechanically, expecting that a new deus ex machina will as inevitably35 appear as the regular if sometimes invisible stars.
Ordham had imbibed36 the half-admitted principle that those that toiled37 existed merely by virtue38 of their usefulness to the great. It might be necessary to throw a bone occasionally to prevent snarling39, or even for mere humanity’s sake; but that these underlings should presume to demand a settlement of accounts at inconvenient40 seasons—the liberty would hardly be greater did they solicit41 an invitation to dinner! That it was dishonest to buy when you had no definite prospect of paying, Ordham would have regarded as a principle of foreign growth, possibly American, wholly plebeian42. It was not a matter upon which he had ever wasted a moment’s analysis; but possibly, had it been put to him with uncompromising bluntness, he would have been startled and ashamed, for he was not only kind and lavish44, but without conscious arrogance45; as for the word “dishonesty” it never entered his conversation or head unless some man of his class committed incomprehensible follies46 and went to Wormwood Scrubbs.
But if he had not as yet given the question sufficient thought even to defend himself on the ground that the tradespeople were more culpable47 than the fatuous48 class whose reckless habits they encouraged that they might suck their life blood undetected, he had long since begun to resent his paltry49 income, and to wonder in what torpors Providence50 drowsed when she permitted his useless miserly brother to come into the world before himself. Still, he had felt the actual pinch very seldom, for Bridgminster, under strong pressure, had twice paid his debts since the death of his father, and his temperament51 and tastes saved him from certain of the snares52 that are spread for young and engaging patricians53.
But if too fastidious and too indifferent for dissipation, his sensuous54 artistic55 pleasure-loving nature, his extravagant personal habits,—he was one of the best-dressed young men in Europe,—and his careless generosity56, demanded the income of an heir-apparent, and his brother incredibly failed to settle it upon him. Of the word “economy” he had not the vaguest appreciation57. He would no more have bought a cheap edition of a favourite book than he would have worn ready-made clothing; clear type, hand-made paper, and a chaste58 binding59 were as necessary to his enjoyment60 as the contents they adorned61, and he had already collected a considerable library in three languages. In Paris he had kept house with two brother secretaries, and, personally, a brougham and a riding horse. He by no means despised cards and the turf. He had attended the opera and theatre every night in the week, if only for an act, and he had made a notable little collection of etchings, prints, and bibel?ts. Moreover, the three young men had done the Embassy credit by the elegance62 and originality63 of their entertainments. When Lord Bridgminster paid the last of the bills whose gracefully64 dissipated substance had added lustre65 to his name, he announced in no mistakable terms that his brother would hereafter live within his income or go to the devil. It is possible that the reverberations of his wrath66 reached London, for it was shortly after Ordham arrived in Munich that his tradespeople, whose existence he had forgotten, began to send in their accounts. Ordham, of course, had not taken his brother’s proclamation seriously; nevertheless, he knew that he would have more trouble extracting money in the future. He relied upon the blandishments of his mother, the only member of the family tolerated by its present head.
Lady Bridgminster, still a woman of considerable fashion, was always hard up, always in debt. She had been a beauty of the early Rossetti type in her young womanhood; that great painter, indeed, had immortalized her on canvas; and since her husband’s death what she had saved in food, avoiding increase, she had spent on rare and lovely fabrics67, stones, and distracted dressmakers, that she might retain her individual style and with it the illusion of youth. She gave her oldest son much advice, but never a penny. The advice by no means was to reform his habits, but to find him a rich wife. She was quite sensible of his attractions and thought he should have established himself before this. “Bridg is thirty-eight,” she had written him just as he was leaving Paris. “As likely as not he will suddenly cease to be a misogynist68 at forty, come up to London, and make a fool of himself; he would be putty in the hands of the first clever mother of portionless daughters that marked him as her own. Then where would be those golden apples you have grown accustomed to regard as your own (in pickle)? I have always believed them to be just a shelf too high, and that is the reason I have been so firm about the diplomatic career; not only because it suits your talents, but because it will be the means of dazzling some wealthy American girl, to whom the prospect of a position in the diplomatic circles of Europe will prove quite as alluring69 as a coronet—which, for that matter, you may win for yourself. I prefer an American, because her relatives will not be likely to live in England. An alliance with any of the modern British tribes might prove extremely awkward; and who else over here has any money—I mean for poor dowagers and younger sons? The Americans, when well-bred, have such a charming independence, yet know exactly how far to go. And then they are generous and would pay my bills. Tradespeople are so tiresome70. Don’t ask me, dear Johnny, for money. As well ask courage of a mouse. If I were young enough, or did not have six boys inadequately71 provided for, I might marry again. As it is, my only present hope is in you. Too bad the other boys are not girls. I should defy any man in England to escape me if I marked him for my prey72 with a pink and white complexion73 on the hook.
“I don’t know what your opportunities will be in Munich, but at least you will be able to live within your income for a bit; you could not spend money in a dowdy74 old German town if you tried—at least no one else could, but I rather fancy you could spend money in the canals of Mars. If Munich has no magnet for the American heiress, try to pass your examinations this year, that you may be launched the sooner.” Then followed several pages of news about his brothers, one of whom was at Sandhurst, one at Eton, the others with a tutor in the country, all “growing at a frightful75 rate,” and costing every penny their father had been able to set aside for their education. In a postscript76 she reverted77 to the first theme. “Remember that you must, must marry money. You are the grand seigneur. You will never learn economy. And why should you?”
Ordham recalled this letter as he stared at the epistle of his tailor. He longed to send the man a check accompanied by a curt78 withdrawal79 of his patronage80. This being out of the question, and Bridgminster untractable for the present, his diplomacy81 conquered his indignation and he wrote a polite note, promising43 to call and settle his account “immediately upon his arrival in London.” Then, concluding upon further reflection that the man was indulging in what the Americans called bluff82, he dismissed the matter into one of the water-tight compartments83 of his mind, where it rubbed elbows in the dark with other episodes best forgotten.
But the second evil was more pressing. For two weeks past, having exhausted84 even his fertile ingenuity85 in excuses for not calling upon a certain Frau von Wass, he had burned her letters unopened. She was a Bulgarian, married these twenty years to a Bavarian Privy86 Councillor (Geheimrath), barely tolerated in Munich society, which has little hospitality for foreigners, and indulging her amorous87 propensities88 at the constant risk of her position; the Müncheners, lenient89 to their own, or to the outsider they embrace voluntarily, circle like lynxes in the pathway of the intruder. Hélène Wass was both stupid and clever; the well-trained instincts of the born adventuress taught her how to entertain as well as to fascinate men; but she bored her own sex with her egotism, her imaginary complaints, her tirades90 against her husband, servants, enemies, and antagonized them by the bewildering variety and grandeur91 of her Paris costumes, her ostentation92, and her conquests. Of plebeian origin, but, with the external traits of heredity corrected by a ten years’ sojourn93 in a convent in Vienna, determined94 to have admiration95, excitement, and money at any cost, her father having lost his little fortune in speculation96, it is possible that she would have drifted into the half-world had not an anxious relative persuaded her to marry the wealthy and respectable Herr Geheimrath von Wass, although he was thirty years her senior and already fat. She met him while visiting a school friend in Hungary, where he owned an estate.
The commonplace deceit of the girl quickly developed into the subtlety97 of the woman, and she found no difficulty in managing a husband whose ruling passion was vanity. She found Munich as dull, narrow, and provincial98 as only an exclusive court society can be; but she consoled herself with the assurance that she extracted more out of it than any woman who courtesied to the King by divine right. She had loved much, but had never been tempted99 to leave her dull important old husband, and had long since forgotten the dreams of her convent days, when she had alternately yearned100 for the honourable101 proposals of an archduke and the untrammelled life of a cocotte. In all the eminent102 women of the half-world there is something of the grande dame103, and doubtless, had fate, at the critical moment, dealt them a rich and powerful husband, they would have become equally distinguished104 members of society. So it was, at least, with Hélène Wass. Although Munich never ceased to harp105 upon the suggestion of the demimondaine in her dress, her beauty, her very essence,—whatever they may have meant by that,—she was now a very great little lady, and no inferior ever made a mistake in approaching her.
She was thirty-nine, and, without artifice106, looked quite ten years younger. Her light blue eyes, sometimes insolently107 bright, often soft and languid, so thickly lashed108 that they looked made up; her abundant hair, of a rich hot brown, arranged with apparent carelessness about her pale eager often excited, little face; her slender, tiny, stately, and always smartly attired109 figure—composed a magnet for the eyes of men wherever she appeared. She had fascinated Ordham, always on the lookout110 for the uncommon111, not only by her odd beauty, her sprightliness112, her wild morbid113 moods, but by her subtle appeal to his sympathies. Far too clever to practise upon men’s senses alone, she had quickly discovered that the young Englishman was chivalrous114, possibly sentimental115, and, in the outer wrappings of his heart, indubiously soft. Unlike Mrs. Cutting, she did not divine the hardness at the core, that hardness which is the inevitable result of waiting for dead men’s shoes, of resentment116 against fate for putting the shoes on the wrong feet, of belonging to a class which secretly believes itself to be above all laws.
But she quickened his sympathies so effectually that he had suddenly found her in his arms, gasping118 out her hatred119 of life, her frantic120 desire to die at once. He had been stirred, flattered, delighted; but all these emotions lasted little over a fortnight. He soon chafed121 at the halter round his neck, and endeavoured to escape from it without wounding the susceptibilities of a lady to whom he was still young enough to be grateful. To escape, however, he was determined; not only did he shrink from her tropical storms, but—and for once her astuteness122 had failed her—he had no mind to be at any woman’s beck and call. She had sent him summonses at all hours of the day and night, and forced him to break more than one engagement he would have preferred to keep. Courteous123 diplomacy failing, he had been driven to ignore her existence. Her present command, however, he could not afford to disregard, for it arrived in a telegram, and announced that if he did not call upon her at three o’clock she would call upon him at the Legation at four.
He had a bad two hours with Fr?ulein Lutz, and was so dull and absent at luncheon that although there were guests he had no difficulty in making his escape. But he lingered in his own room, cursing his folly124, for half an hour longer; then, offering a cab driver double fare to hasten, managed to arrive at the “palace” of the eminent Geheimrath at a quarter to four.
Frau Hélène, familiar with his habits, had not expected him earlier, and had preserved the equanimity125 necessary to the r?le she was determined to play. Instead of being conducted to the Pompadour boudoir, where he expected to find her in negligée and tears, he was ushered126 into the great Empire drawing-room, where she stood severely127 attired in a black velvet128 gown, whose train gave her fictitious129 inches and accented the proud mask into which she had set her mobile little face. She saw at a glance that he was very white and nervous, but more dignified130, more remote, than ever, and only long experience, and the cool brain of the born huntress, enabled her to restrain her passion. She completely disconcerted him by putting out her hand and smiling brightly.
“That was a wild telegram,” she said, in her soft, somewhat thick voice. “But—let us sit quite in the middle of the room where we cannot be overheard—I felt that I must see you before I go away.”
“You are going away?” Ordham felt like a prisoner reprieved131, but employed the tone of polite regret.
“My husband is so ill (this, of course, is a profound secret) that I have persuaded him to go to his estate in Hungary and die in peace. Not that he has the least idea he must die, poor old dear; we call it resting for a time. As you may fancy, dear Mr. Ordham, I have few regrets in leaving a city whose insults and slights I have been forced to endure for fifteen years—I was married on my sixteenth birthday” (Ordham had looked her up also in the Graf Buch), “and now—well—”
He drew a long breath and clenched132 his hands. She continued:
“I felt that I must see you before I left. I telegraphed because I felt sure that you had ceased to open my notes—”
“Oh! How can you say such a thing?”
“You were quite right. I have done the same thing myself. But many, many times! When a woman of my age makes a fool of herself, she does not deserve half the consideration which you have shown to me. Seven years may be very few as time goes, but they are an eternity133 when a woman commits the folly of loving a man younger than herself—”
“Oh! How can you say such things? How can you—” Ordham, who had been prepared for worse, felt as if his brain were being flicked134 with red-hot whips. He sprang to his feet and strode up and down the room, longing117 to tear his hair, to bolt from the house. Frau von Wass continued:
“Allow me to see myself as I should see another woman in the same circumstances. And while it has not been a happy experience, it has been salutary. Of course, I knew, when you turned as sulky as Adonis and as polite as an unfaithful husband, that it was all over. But—being a woman—”
“I am so sorry!”
“You say that in precisely135 the same tone when you forget an appointment or are late for dinner.” She spoke136 with soft humour. “But I did not send for you to reproach you, but for two reasons: to express my regret that I was so short-sighted as to sacrifice friendship to love, and to ask you to renew the first delightful137 relationship during the short time I shall remain in Munich.”
“Why not?” he asked eagerly, in his immense relief. He had found her wholly charming during their earlier acquaintance; and was quite willing to obliterate138 the entr’acte, were only she. He took a straight chair opposite her, and did not even look at the little white hands lying so helplessly on the black velvet lap. He shrank from her, and she guessed this, and for the moment was filled with such a rage of hatred that she would have stuck a knife into him had one been at hand. As it was she dropped her eyelashes, and permitted her red lips to quiver. Then she looked him full in the face and said quietly:
“It is too kind of you to believe that you can stand me for a fortnight longer. You are safe. You gave me a blow on the heart that has paralyzed it—no! do not get up again. I am not reproaching you, merely stating the case, quite dispassionately, as you can see. Love is a sealed book to me from this time forth139, and, far from feeling reproachful,—ah! dear Mr. Ordham,—I am grateful. Just so often as a woman loves does she die. She comes to life again in the course of time, but with less and less of energy, illusion, her original power to love and be happy. I sometimes think that love is a congestion140 of a spot in the brain round the image of the man, which stares at her waking and sleeping, never to be banished141 from the tortured consciousness till Time has drained the blood from that little spot. And then it withers142! And the best man on earth could never give life to that dead spot again. I am telling all this to your curious analytical143 mind, knowing of old how such things interest you, and being quite beyond all sensation myself. Now,” she concluded, rising like royalty144 and holding out her hand, which he took limply, “I shall let you go—how cold your hand is!”
“I am congealed145! You have made me utterly146 miserable147.”
“Not utterly, but a little. You deserve that much. Poor boy!” Her accent was that of the indulgent woman of the world. “Your education has begun too early. Nature did you an ill turn in giving you a brain and a charm out of all proportion to your years. You ought to be amusing yourself with nice English girls” (she knew that he hated English girls), “not playing up to a lot of European flirts148 a dozen years older than yourself. Be thankful that you fell into my hands. You are now as free as air once more—only—you will come here often this last fortnight?”
“Of course.” He shook hands with her once more and escaped from the house. As he opened the gate, absorbed in his miserable reflections, and quite unaware149 of his white dejected face, he did not notice a carriage that passed, nor that the occupant leaned forward suddenly; but a moment later he vaguely150 recognized the brougham and liveries of Countess Tann.
Within the magnificent Empire salon151, which had tempted more than one member of the royal family, upon whom restrictions152 as to quarterings did not sit as heavily as upon the anointed, Hélène Wass sat with clenched hands and contorted face. She had fought down her passion at the risk of a fainting fit, but, well as she thought she knew herself, she had not guessed how difficult it would be, hardly what proportions her passion had assumed. She had not had the faintest intention of leaving Munich; her object had been to disarm153 her episodical lover, as cold and restive154 as a young girl, and with other methods and other arts win him again. Failing that, she would indulge in the doubtful joy of his mere friendship. But now she discarded not only the last alternative, but the waiting policy.
One of Ordham’s charms for this blasée woman of plebeian origin was the atmosphere of intellectual remoteness in which he seemed to dwell, and which, combined with his dignity and fine manners, made him the most finished type of the traditional aristocrat she had ever met. It was when she realized that she might never penetrate155 those outer envelopes of gayety and candour with which he concealed156 the intense reserve of his nature, that she had fallen genuinely in love with him; and the love of a woman of that sort is far more dangerous than her mere passion.
To-day, as he had sat in his straight chair, with his hands resting lightly, yet with a suggestion of weight, on his lap, completely at his ease in spite of his distress157, his watchful158 brain throwing an almost visible shadow over his youth, she had become violently conscious that to possess this man wholly she would see the earth crumble159 under her feet. It was the first time in her life that she had considered sacrificing the world for any man. Whether she loved Ordham more than she had ever loved before, she could not be sure, for when a woman has loved many times memory is the last thing she cultivates; but love, heretofore, had not demanded sacrifice as a part of its programme. Nor had she ever felt quite so sick of Munich, its passive impregnability, the eternal weary round of official dinners she was forced, as the wife of a Geheimrath, to give and attend; the husband, whom she had expected, when she married him, to leave her a young widow, had never seemed so hopelessly hale, the future had never looked so short.
She tore and gnawed160 her handkerchief until her gown was strewn with lint161, but her brain worked clearly. Only a brief while of self-control and she felt positive that she could reawaken his interest. Then she would force him to compromise her in such a manner that he could not desert her when she fled from Munich. Six months at her villa162 in Italy, and then a quiet wedding; and in addition to owning the unfortunate youth, body and soul, she should enjoy a fair prospect of blinding the world to her indiscretion with the coronet of Bridgminster. So far, she had had no occasion to appeal to the young Englishman’s honour or chivalry163, but let her be able to demonstrate to him that, through the mighty164 passion he had awakened165, her life was in ruins, and he would marry her beyond the shadow of a doubt. The opposition166 of his family would merely crystallize that obstinacy167 that showed its grim face now and again amidst the vacillations of a character still immature168. To the young man’s ruined career and maimed life, to his possibly broken heart, she gave not a thought; or had she, it would have made no difference in her plans. There is no adventuress so utterly unscrupulous as the society cocotte, with her demands so much more complicated than those of the women of commerce, particularly when her sated senses are electrified169 for the last time. Hélène Wass knew that she should never love again, and for love and the pleasure of spending money she had lived since the convent doors had closed behind her. Money of her own she now had in abundance, for her father had speculated rationally during the later years of his life and had left her, his sole heir, a considerable fortune. Once her lips gave a satirical twist as the question obtruded170 itself: should she have had the courage to sacrifice all for love on a younger son’s meagre income? Then she felt something like a pang171 of gratitude172 that there was no obstacle to her headlong abandonment to a passion, which, whatever suffering and mortification173 it entailed, gave her back her youth, awoke once more in her weary brain the power to dream, to vizualize a future. Years before, it seemed to her, as she sat there and heard the heavy feet of her old husband in the hall, she had resigned herself to the interminable blankness of the present.
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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fin
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luncheon
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prospect
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wiles
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promptly
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intimacy
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recluse
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piqued
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descended
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standing
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reminders
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ignominious
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mere
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extravagant
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remonstrance
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entailed
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antipathy
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contrived
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glamour
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peculiar
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devoted
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interval
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abruptly
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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discrepant
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| 差异的 | |
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27
fluctuation
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| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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29
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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30
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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31
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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32
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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33
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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34
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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35
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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36
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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37
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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38
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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39
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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40
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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41
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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42
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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43
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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44
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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45
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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46
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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47
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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48
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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49
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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50
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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51
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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52
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
patricians
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| n.（古罗马的）统治阶层成员( patrician的名词复数 )；贵族，显贵 | |
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54
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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55
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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56
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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57
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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58
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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59
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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60
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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61
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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62
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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63
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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64
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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65
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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66
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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67
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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68
misogynist
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| n.厌恶女人的人 | |
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69
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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70
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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71
inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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72
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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73
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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74
dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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75
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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76
postscript
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|
| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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77
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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78
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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79
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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80
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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81
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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82
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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83
compartments
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|
| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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84
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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85
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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86
privy
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|
| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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87
amorous
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|
| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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88
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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89
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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90
tirades
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| 激烈的长篇指责或演说( tirade的名词复数 ) | |
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91
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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92
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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93
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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94
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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95
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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96
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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97
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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98
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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99
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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100
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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102
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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103
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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104
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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105
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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106
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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107
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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108
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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109
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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110
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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111
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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112
sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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113
morbid
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|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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114
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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115
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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116
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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117
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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118
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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119
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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120
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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121
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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122
astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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123
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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124
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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125
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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126
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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128
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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129
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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130
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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131
reprieved
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| v.缓期执行（死刑）( reprieve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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134
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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135
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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136
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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137
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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138
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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139
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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140
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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141
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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143
analytical
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|
| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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144
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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145
congealed
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|
| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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146
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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147
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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148
flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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149
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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150
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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151
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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152
restrictions
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|
| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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153
disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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154
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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155
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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156
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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157
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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158
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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159
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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160
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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161
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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162
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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163
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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164
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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165
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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166
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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167
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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168
immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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169
electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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170
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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172
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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173
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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