“Benedick!” they will chorus with convincing unanimity8. “My dear fellow, he’s been immune since birth. He’s never given any girl that lived or breathed a second thought—it’s extremely doubtful if he ever gave one a first. You can say what you please about him, but this you can take as a36 fact; you know one man who is going down to the grave as single as the day he was born.”
Well, you can take it as a fact if you care to, and it’s more than likely that you and the rest of the world will be right. Certainly, no one would ever have called him susceptible9, even at the age when any decent, normal young cub10 is ready to count the world well lost for an eyelash. But not our Benedick—no, long before the gray steel had touched the blue of his eyes and the black of his hair he had apparently11 found a use for it in an absolutely invulnerable strong box for what he was pleased to call his heart. Then as now, he had faced his world with curled lips and cool eyes—graceful and graceless, spoiled, arrogant12, and indifferent, with more money and more brains and more charm and a better conceit13 of himself than any two men should have—and a wary14 and sceptical eye for the charming creatures who circled closer and closer about him. The things that he used to think and occasionally say about those circling enchantresses were certainly unromantic and unchivalrous to a degree. Rather an intolerable young puppy, for all his brilliant charm—and the years have not mellowed15 him to any perceptible extent. Hardly likely to fall victim to the wiles16 of any lady, according to his worst enemy and his best friend and the world37 in general. No, hardly. But there was a lady....
It wasn’t yesterday that he first saw her—and it wasn’t a hundred years ago, either. It was at Raoul’s; if you are one of the large group of apparently intelligent people whose mania17 consists in believing that there is only one place in the world that any one could possibly reside in, and that that place is about a quarter of a mile square and a mile and a half long and runs up from a street called Forty-second on an island called Manhattan, you undoubtedly18 know Raoul’s. Not a tea room—Heaven save the mark! Not a restaurant—God forbid! Something between the two; a small room, clean and shabby, fragrant19 with odours more delectable20 than flowers. No one is permitted to smoke at Raoul’s, not even ladies, because the light blue haze21 might disturb the heavenly aroma22, at once spiced and bland23, that broods over the place like a benediction24. Nothing quite like it anywhere else in America, those who have been there will tell you; nothing quite like it anywhere else in the world. It costs fine gold to sit at one of the little round tables in the corner, but mere25 gold cannot pay for what you receive. For to Raoul the preparation of food is an art and a ceremony and a ritual and a science—not a commercial enterprise. The only thing that he purchases with38 your gold is leisure in which to serve you better. So who are you to grudge26 it to him?
Larry Benedick lunched there every day of his life, when he was in New York, heedless of a steady shower of invitations. He lived then in one of those coveted27 apartments not a stone’s throw from Raoul’s brown door—a luxurious28 box of a place that one of the charming creatures (who happened to be his sister-in-law) had metamorphosed into a bachelor’s paradise, so successfully that any bachelor should have frothed at the mouth with envy at the mere sight of it.
It had a fair-sized living room, with very masculine crash curtains, darned in brilliant colours, and rough gray walls and an old Florentine chest skillfully stuffed with the most expensive phonograph on the market, and rows and rows of beautifully bound books. There was a deep gray velvet30 sofa with three Chinese-red cushions in front of the small black fireplace (of course it wasn’t possible to light a fire in it without retiring from the apartment with a wet towel tied around the head, crawling rather rapidly on the hands and knees because all the first-aid books state that any fresh air will be near the floor—but what of that? After all, you can’t have everything!)—and there were wrought-iron lamps that threw the light at exactly the right angle for reading, and very good English39 etchings and very gay Viennese prints in red lacquer frames, and a really charming old Venetian mirror over the mantel. It was a perfect room for a fastidious young man, and Benedick loathed31 it with an awful loathing32.
“All the elusive33 charm of a window in a furniture shop,” he remarked pensively34 to his best friend—but at least he refrained from destroying the pretty sister-in-law’s transports of altruistic35 enthusiasm, and left it grimly alone, keeping his eyes averted36 from its charms as frequently as possible, and leaving for South Carolina or northern Canada on the slightest provocation—or else swinging off to Raoul’s at twelve o’clock with a feeling of profound relief, when what he fantastically referred to as “business” kept him chained to New York and the highly successful living room.
“Business” for Benedick consisted largely of a series of more or less amicable37 colloquies38 with a gray-faced, incisive39 gentleman in a large, dark, shining office, and the even more occasional gift of his presence at those convivial40 functions known as board meetings. His father, long dead, had been imprudent enough to sow the wind of financial speculation42, and his unworthy son was now languidly engaged in reaping a whirlwind of coupons43 and dividends44. It is painful to dwell on so rudimentary a lack of fair play on the part of40 Fate, though Benedick occasionally did dwell on it, with a sardonic grin at the recollection of the modest incomes received by the more prudent41 and thrifty45 members of the family. He made what atonement he could for his father’s unjustifiable success by a series of astoundingly lavish46 gifts, however, and wasted the rest of it more or less successfully.
“Business” had kept him in town on that March day when he first saw her. He had arrived at Raoul’s doorstep at exactly five minutes past twelve; he lunched early, because he was a disciple47 of the Continental48 schedule, and it also avoided interruptions from over-fervent friends who frequented the place. The pretty cashier with her red cheeks and her elaborate Gallic coiffure bestowed49 her usual radiant smile on him, and Benedick smiled back, with a swift response that many a débutante would have given a large piece of her small soul to obtain. Jules, the sallow and gentle-eyed, pulled out the little round chair with its padded cushions, pushed in the little round table with its threadbare and spotless cloth, and bent50 forward with pencil poised51, the embodiment of discreet52 and eager interest.
“Bonjour, monsieur! Monsieur désire?——”
This, after all, was nearer a home than anything that Larry Benedick had known for many a41 weary year—this warm and peaceful corner, with old Jules and young Geneviève spreading friendliness53 all about him, with Raoul out in the tiled and copper-hung kitchen, alert to turn his skill to service. Monsieur desired? Well, kidneys flamboyant54, perhaps—and then some artichokes with Raoul’s Hollandaise—and the little curled pancakes with orange and burnt sugar in the chafing-dish. Demi-tasse, of course, and Bénédictine. Not yesterday, you see, that March afternoon!—Jules slipped away, as elated as though he were bearing with him great good tidings, and the brown-and-gray kitten came out from under the table, tapping at the cuff55 of his trousers with an imperious paw, and he had a smile for it, too. Here in this tranquil56 space Monsieur had all that he desired, had he not? Surely, all. He bent forward to stroke the pink nose of his enterprising visitor, the smile deepening until the dark face was suddenly young—and the brown door opened and she came in.
Benedick knew quite well that it was a raw and abominable57 day outside—but he could have sworn that he looked up because the room was suddenly full of the smell of pear blossoms, and lilacs, and the damp moss58 that grows beside running brooks—and that he felt the sunlight on his hands. There she stood, straight and slim, in her rough42 green tweed, with her sapphire60-blue scarf and the sapphire-blue feather in the little tweed hat that she had pulled down over the bright wings of her hair, her face as fresh and gay as though she had just washed it in that running brook59, her lovely mouse-coloured eyes soft and mischievous61, as though she were keeping some amusing secret. There was mud on her high brown boots, and she was swinging a shining new brief case in one bare hand. Benedick stared at that hand incredulously. It wasn’t possible that anything real could be so beautiful; velvet white, steel strong, fine and slim and flexible—such a hand Ghirlan-daijo’s great ladies of the Renaissance62 lifted to their hearts—such a hand a flying nymph on a Grecian frieze63 flung out in quest of mercy. And yet there it was, so close to him that if he stretched out his fingers he could touch it!
The owner of this white wonder stood poised for a moment, apparently speculating as to whether this was the most perfect place in the world in which to lunch; she cast a swift glance of appraisal64 about the shadowed room with its hangings and cushions of faded peacock-blue, with its coal fire glowing and purring in the corner and its pots of pansies sitting briskly and competently along the deep window-sills; she gave a swift nod of recognition, as though she had found something43 that she had long been seeking, and slipped lightly into the chair at the table next to Benedick’s. Her flying eyes had brushed by the startled wonder of his face as though it had not been there, and it was obvious that he was still not there, in so far as the lady was concerned. She pounced65 exultantly66 on the carte du jour and gave it her rapt and undivided attention; when Jules arrived carrying Benedick’s luncheon68 as carefully as though it were a delicate and cherished baby she was ready and waiting for him—and Jules succumbed69 instantly to the hopeful friendliness of her voice.
But certainly, Mademoiselle could have sole bonne femme and potatoes allumettes, and a small salad—oui, oui, entendu—bien fatiguée, that salad, with a soup?on of garlic in a crust of bread, and the most golden of oils—yes, and a soufflé of chocolate with a demi-tasse in which should be just one dash of cognac—oh, rest assured of the quality of the cognac. Ah, it was to be seen that Mademoiselle was fine gourmet—which was, alas70, not too common a quality in ces dames71! Fifteen minutes would not be too long to wait, no? The potatoes—bon, bon—Mademoiselle should see. Jules trotted72 rapidly off in the direction of the kitchen, and Benedick’s luncheon grew cold before him while he watched to see what the miracle at the table beside him would do next.
44 How long, how long you had waited for her, Benedick the cynic—so long that you had forgotten how lovely she would be. After all, it had not been you who had waited; it had been a little black-headed, blue-eyed dreamer, fast asleep these many years—you had forgotten him, too, had you not? He was awake now with a vengeance73, staring through your incredulous eyes at the lovely lady of his dreams, sitting, blithe74 and serene75, within hand’s touch—the lovely lady who was not too proud to have mud on her boots and who actually knew what to order for lunch. All the girls that Benedick had ever known from the fuzzy-headed little ladies in the chorus to the sleek-locked wives of his best friend and his worst enemy, ordered chicken à la King and fruit salad and indescribable horrors known as maple76 walnut77 sundaes and chocolate marshmallow ice cream. But not this lady—oh, not this one! He leaned forward, breathless; what further enchantments78 had she in store? Well, next she took off her hat, tossing it recklessly across the table, and the golden wings of her hair sprang out alive and joyous79, like something suddenly uncaged—and then she was uncaging something else, a shabby brownish red book, prying80 it out of the depths of the new brief case as though she could hardly wait; he could see from the way that the white hands45 touched it that they loved it dearly—that they had loved it dearly for a long, long time. It flew open, as though it remembered the place itself, and she dipped her bright head to it, and was off! Benedick pushed his untouched plate far from him, leaning forward across the table, caution and courtesy and decent reserve clean forgotten. What was she reading that could make her face dance like that—all her face, the gold-tipped lashes81 and the brave lips, and the elusive fugitive82 in the curve of the cheek turned toward him, too fleeting83 to be a dimple—too enchanting84 not to be one—what in the name of heaven was she reading? If only she would move her hand a little—ah!
Something came pattering eagerly toward him out of the printed page—a small, brisk, portly individual with long ears and a smart waistcoat—his heart greeted it with a shout of incredulous delight. By all that was wonderful, the White Rabbit! The dim room with its round tables faded, faded—Benedick the cynic, Benedick the sceptic, faded with it—he was back in another room, warm with firelight and bright with lamplight, in which a small black-headed boy sat upright in a crib, and listened to a lady reading from a red-brown book—a curly-headed lady, soft-voiced, soft-handed, and soft-eyed, who46 for ten enchanted85 years had read the lucky little boy to sleep; he had never believed in fairy tales again, after that soft voice had trailed off into silence. But now—now it was speaking once more—and once more he believed!
“Oh, the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh, my dear paws! Oh, my fur and whiskers! She’ll have me arrested as sure as ferrets are ferrets! Where can I have dropped them?”
The little boy was leaning forward, flushed and enchanted.
“Well, but motherie darling, where could he have dropped them? Where could he have dropped those gloves?”
“Monsieur désire?”
Benedick stared blankly at the solicitous86 countenance87, wrenching88 himself back across the years. Monsieur desired—ah, Monsieur desired—Monsieur desired——
He sat very still after that, until she had sipped89 the last drop of black coffee out of the little blue cup, until she had pulled the hat down over the golden wings and wrapped the sapphire scarf about her white throat and wedged “Alice” back into the brief case, and smiled at Jules, and smiled at Geneviève, and smiled at the gray kitten, and vanished through the brown door.
He sat even stiller for quite a while after she had gone; and then suddenly bounded to his feet and flung out of the room before the startled47 Jules could ask him whether there was not something that he preferred to the untouched Bénédictine.
It was drizzling90 in the gray street and he turned his face to it as though it were sunshine; he glanced in the direction of the large dark office, and dismissed it with a light-hearted shrug91. Business—business, by the Lord! Not while there was still a spot to dream in undisturbed. He raced up the apartment-house stairs three at a time, scorning the elevator, and was in the living room before the petrified92 Harishidi could do more than leap goggle-eyed from his post by the Florentine chest. Harishidi had obviously been indulging his passion for Occidental music, though you would not have gathered it from the look of horrified93 rebuke94 that he directed at the Renaissance treasure’s spirited rendition of the “Buzz Town Darkies’ Ball.” The look conveyed the unmistakable impression that Harishidi had done everything in his power to prevent the misguided instrument from breaking out in this unfortunate manner during his master’s absence, but that his most earnest efforts had proved of no avail. Benedick, however, was unimpressed.
“For the love of God, shut off that infernal noise!”
Harishidi flung himself virtuously95 on the offending48 treasure, and Benedick stood deliberating for a moment.
“Bring me the records out of the drawer—no, over to the couch—I’m half dead for sleep after that damned party. Get my pipe; the briar, idiot. Matches. This the lot Mrs. Benedick sent?”
Harishidi acknowledged it freely, and Benedick shuffled97 rapidly through the black disks. Cello98 rendition of “Eli Eli”; the Smith Sisters in a saxophone medley99; highly dramatic interpretation100 of the little idyll from Samson et Delilah; “Kiss Your Baby and Away We Go” specially101 rendered by Dolpho, the xylophone king—yes, here it was.
“An Elizabethan Song, sung by Mr. Roger Grahame of the Santa Clara Opera Company.”
“Here you are, Hari; put this on your infernal machine. Take the telephone off the hook and give me another of those cushions. Where’s an ash tray? All right—let her rip!”
“I play her now?” demanded the incredulous Harishidi.
“You play her now, and you keep right on playing her until I tell you to stop. What’s more, if I hear another word out of you, you’re fired. All right—what are you waiting for? Go ahead!”
The quiet room was suddenly flooded with grace and gallantry and a gay melancholy102; a light49 tenor103 voice singing easily and happily of something that was not joy—and was not sorrow—
“There was a lady, fair and kind,
Was never face so pleased my mind;
I did but see her, passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.
Till—I—die——”
Fair and kind—a lady with gold wings for hair and gray velvet for eyes—a lady who knew what to have for lunch and who read “Alice in Wonderland”—a lady who was tall and slim, and had a mouth like a little girl, and mud on her high boots—white-handed and white-throated—pear blossoms in the sunlight—fair and kind—
“Her gesture, motion, and her smile,
Beguile my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die.
Till—I—die.”
Her grace, her voice—a lady who walked as though she were about to dance—a lady who spoke105 as though she were about to sing—fair and kind—gold and ivory—he had seen her before—she lived in a castle and her hair hung down to her heels—he had ridden by on a black horse and she had thrown him a rose—a castle by the sea—a castle behind a hedge of thorns—a castle in a50 dreaming wood—but he had found her and waked her with a kiss—no, no, it was he who had been asleep—a long time—a long time asleep—he wanted to hear the end of the story, but he was so warm and happy, it was hard to keep awake—the firelight made strange shadows....
“And so they both lived happily ever after!”
“Then he did find her, Motherie?”
“Of course, of course, he found her, Sleepy Head.”
“Ever, ever after, Motherie?”
“Ever, ever after, little boy.”...
Fair and kind, Golden Hair, smiling in the firelight—smile again—ever after, she said—ever, ever after....
* * * * *
The next day he was at Raoul’s at a quarter to twelve, and when Jules asked what Monsieur desired, he told him to bring anything, it made no difference to him! The stupefied Jules departed to the kitchen, where he was obliged to remain seated for several moments, owing to a slight touch of vertigo106, and Monsieur sat unmolested in his chair in the corner, his eyes fastened on the brown door as though they would never leave it. He was still sitting there, feverish107 and preoccupied108, half an hour later, having dutifully consumed everything that Jules put before him without51 once removing his eyes from the door. It wasn’t possible—it wasn’t possible that she wouldn’t come again. Fate could not play him so scurvy109 a trick; but let him lay eyes on her just once more, and he would take no further chances with Fate! He would walk up to her the second that she crossed the threshold, and demand her name and address and telephone number and occupation—— And the door opened, and she came in, and he sat riveted110 to his chair while she bestowed a bunch of violets the size of a silver dollar on the enchanted Geneviève, a smile of joyous complicity on the infatuated Jules, and a rapturous pat on the gray kitten. After a while he transferred his gaze from the door to the table next to him, but otherwise he did not stir. He was thinking a great many things very rapidly—unflattering and derisive111 comments on the mentality112 of one Larry Benedick. Idiot—ass! As though any lady who held her bright head so high would not disdain113 him out of measure if she could get so much as a glimpse into the depths of his fatuous114 and ignoble115 mind. Ask her for her address indeed! His blood froze at the thought.
The lady, in the meantime, had ordered lunch and discarded her hat and pried116 another treasure from the brief case; this time it was brown and larger, and she held it so that Benedick could see52 the title without irreparably ruining his eyes. “Tommy and Grizel”—the unspeakable Tommy! She was reading it with breathless intensity117, too, and a look on her face that struck terror to his heart, a look at once scornful and delighted and disturbed, as though Tommy himself were sitting opposite her. So this—this was the kind of fellow that she liked to lunch with—a sentimental118, posturing119 young hypocrite, all arrogance120 and blarney—it was incredible that she couldn’t see through him! What magic had this worthless idiot for ladies?
Benedick glared at the humble-looking brown volume as though he would cheerfully rip the heart out of it. He continued to glare until the white hands put it back into the brief case with a lingering and regretful touch, and carried it away through the door; no sooner had it closed than he jammed on his hat and brushed rudely by the smiling Geneviève and out into the wind-swept street. There he paused, staring desperately121 about him, but the sapphire feather was nowhere to be seen, and after a moment he started off at a tremendous pace for his apartment, where he proceeded to keep his finger on the elevator bell for a good minute and a half, and scowled122 forbiddingly at the oblivious123 elevator boy for seven stories, and slammed the door of the living room so53 vigorously that the red-lacquered frames leapt on the wall.
He crossed the room in three lengthy124 strides, and slammed his bedroom door behind him even more vigorously. The bedroom was exactly half the size of the tiled bathroom, so that the artistic125 sister-in-law had only been able to wedge in a Renaissance day-bed and a painted tin scrap126 basket—but Benedick found it perfectly127 satisfactory, as she had permitted him to use books instead of wall-paper. All the ones that she considered too shabby for the living room rose in serried128 ranks to the high ceiling—Benedick had substituted a nice arrangement of green steps instead of a chair, and had discovered that he could put either these or the scrap basket in the bathroom, if it was necessary to move around. He mounted the steps now, and snatched a brown volume from its peaceful niche129 on the top shelf next to “Sentimental Tommy,” climbed down and sat on the Renaissance day-bed, wrenched130 the book open so violently that he nearly broke its back, and read about what happened to Tommy on the last few pages—served him damned well right, too, except that hanging was too good for him. Sentiment! Sentiment was a loathsome131 thing, not to be borne for a moment.
The third time that he read it he felt a little better, and he got up and kicked the scrap basket hard,54 and telephoned to the incisive gentleman in the office that he wouldn’t be around because he had neuralgia and phlebitis and a jumping toothache, and telephoned his ravished sister-in-law that he’d changed his mind and would be around for dinner at eight if she’d swear to seat him next to a brunette. Subsequently he was so attentive132 to the brunette that she went home in a fever of excitement—and Benedick ground his teeth, and prayed that somehow his golden lady might know about it and feel a pang133 of the soft and bitter madness known as jealousy134, which is the exclusive prerogative135 of women. He lay with his head in the pillow on the Renaissance bed most of the night, cursing his idiocy136 with profound fervour, wondering what insanity137 had made him think for a moment that he was interested in that yellow-haired girl, and resolving not to go near Raoul’s for at least a week. She was probably someone’s stenographer138—or a lady authoress. Every now and then he slipped off into horrid139 little dreams; he was building a gallows140 out of pear trees for a gentleman called Tommy, and just when he had the noose141 ready, it slipped about his own throat—and he could feel it tightening142, tightening, while someone laughed just behind him, very soft and clear—he woke with a shiver, and the dawn was in the room. He wouldn’t go to Raoul’s for a month....
55 At five minutes to twelve he crossed the threshold, and she was there already with her hat off and a little fat green-and-gold book propped143 up against her goblet144. Thank God that she had left that brown bounder at home! Benedick stared earnestly, and felt a deeper gratitude145 to Robert Herrick and his songs than he had ever known before. It was easy to see that she was safe in green meadows, brave with cowslips and violets and hawthorn146 and silver streams, playing with those charming maids, Corinna and Julia. Benedick breathed a sigh of relief, and when her lunch arrived he was stricken again with admiration147 at the perfection of her choice. Herrick himself could have done no better; the whole-wheat bread, the primrose148 pats of butter, the bowl in which the salad lurked149 discreetly—but he could see the emerald green of cress, and something small and silver and something round and ruddy—radishes and onions shining like jewels! There was a jar of amber150 honey, a little blue pitcher151 of thick cream, and a great blue bowl of crimson152 berries—strawberries in March, with a drift of fresh green mint leaves about them. Here was a lady who was either incredibly wealthy or incredibly spendthrift! She closed her book when Jules put this other pastoral before her, and ate as though it might be a long, long time before she would eat anything again,56 though she managed to look as though she were singing all the time. There was a bit of cream left for the kitten, and she fed it carefully, patted its white whiskers, and was gone.
Benedick strolled out thoughtfully, remembering to smile at Geneviève, and feeling more like a good little boy than a ripened153 cynic. It was incredible how virtuous96 it made one feel to be happy! He wanted to adopt a yellow dog and give money to a beggar and buy out a florist154 shop. The florist shop was the only object accessible, and he walked in promptly155; the clerk had spoken to him before he realized that he couldn’t send her flowers, because he didn’t happen to know who she was. He might tell him to send them to the Loveliest Lady in New York, but it was a little risky156. However, he bought an armful of daffodils, and a great many rose-red tulips, and enough blue and white hyacinths to fill a garden, and went straight back to his apartment without even waiting for change from the gold piece that he gave to the clerk. He handed them over to the startled Harishidi with the curt29 order to put them in water; never mind if he didn’t have enough vases. Put them in high-ball glasses—finger-bowls—anywhere—he wanted them all over the place. The buyer of flowers then retired157 and put on a gorgeous and festively158 striped necktie,57 washed his face and hands with a bland and pleasing soap, brushed his black hair until it shone, smiled gravely at the dark face in the mirror, and returned to the sitting room. There he selected a white hyacinth blossom with meticulous159 care, placed it in his buttonhole, and earnestly requested Harishidi to retire and remain in retirement160 until summoned.
He spent quite a long time after that, drawing the curtains to shut out the grayness, struggling despairingly over the diminutive161 fire, piling the cushions so that they made a brilliant nest at one end of the velvet sofa, placing a gold-tooled volume of Aucassin and Nicolette where she could reach it easily—oh, if he could not send his flowers to her, he would bring her to his flowers! He adjusted the reading lamp with its painted parchment shade and dragged a stool up to the sofa. It was his sister-in-law’s best find—a broad and solid stool, sedate162 and comely—he sat there clasping his knees, his cheek against the velvet of the sofa—waiting. After a long time, he drew a deep breath, and smiled into the shadows. He did not turn his head; what need to turn it?
She was there—he could see her sinking far back into the scarlet163 cushions, greeting his flowers with joyous eyes. She had on a cream-coloured dress of some soft stuff, and a long chain of amber beads164;58 the lamplight fell on her hair and on her clasped hands—and still he sat there, waiting. What need had they of speech? There was a perfume in her hair—a perfume of springtime, fleeting and exquisite165; if he reached out his hand he could touch her. He sat very still; after a little while he felt her hand on his dark head, but still he did not stir—he only smiled more deeply into the shadows, and closed his eyes—— His eyes were still closed when Harishidi came in to ask him if he had forgotten dinner, and his lips were parted, like a little boy lost in a happy dream—in a happy, happy dream....
After that, the days passed by in an orderly and enchanted procession; he watched them bringing gifts to the corner table at Raoul’s, feeling warm and grateful and safe; too content to risk his joy by so much as stirring a finger. By and by he would speak to her, of course; in some easy, simple way he would step across the threshold of her life, and their hands would touch, never to fall apart again. She would drop her brief case, perhaps, and he would give it back to her, and she would smile; she would come into some drawing room where he was standing166 waiting patiently and the hostess would say, “You know Mr. Benedick, don’t you? He’s going to take you in to dinner.” He would go to more dinners—surely she must dine somewhere,59 and dances—surely she danced! Or the gray kitten might capture that wisp of a handkerchief, and bring it to him as booty—he would rescue it and carry it back to her—and she would smile her thanks—she would smile—— It would all be as simple as that—simpler, perhaps; for the time, he asked no more than to let the days slip by while he sat watching her across the table; that was enough.
Ah, those days! There was the one when she brought out a great volume of Schopenhauer, and laughed all the time she read it; twice she laughed aloud, and so gay and clear was her derision that Jules joined in, too. It was probably the essay on Woman, Benedick decided—the part where he said that ladies were little animals with long hair and limited intelligence. There was the day when she read out of a slim book of vellum about that small, enchanting mischief167, Marjorie Fleming, and when Jules put the iced melon down before her she did not see it for almost a minute—her eyes were too full of tears. There was the day when she read “War and Peace” with her hands over her ears and such a look of terror on her face that Benedick had all that he could do to keep from crossing over and putting his arms about her, to close out all the dangers that she feared—even the ones she read about in books.
60 And suddenly March was over, and it was April, and there was the day when she took a new volume out of the brief case—so new that it still had its paper cover with large black letters announcing that it contained desirable information about Small Country Houses for Limited Incomes, Colonial Style. She read it with tremendous intensity and a look wavering between rapture168 and despair; once she sighed forlornly, and once she made a small, defiant169 face at some invisible adversary—and once she patted a picture lingeringly.
After she had gone, Benedick took his sister-in-law’s automobile170, and drove out to Connecticut, and bought a house—a little old white house with many-paned windows, that sat on a hill with lilac bushes around it, and looked at the silver waters of the Sound. It was perfectly preposterous171 that she shouldn’t have a house if she wanted it, and he was glad that she wanted a small country house, Colonial style, even though it didn’t necessarily imply a moderate income. For the first time in his life he was glad that his income was not moderate. When he got back to town he bought a gray roadster—not too heavy, so that she could drive it. She might want to be in and out of town a lot; you never could tell.
He told his sister-in-law that he was going to raise Airedales, because it was impossible61 to buy a decent puppy these days, and he discoursed172 lucidly173 and affably about a highly respectable Scotch174 couple that he was going to get to look after the white house and supervise the Airedales. After that he devoted175 most of his leisure hours to antique shops and auctions176, where he purchased any amount of Sheraton furniture and Lowestoft china and Bristol glass and hooked rugs and old English chintzes for the benefit of the Airedale puppies and the Scotch couple. He hadn’t as much time as formerly177, because he had been growing steadily178 more uncomfortable at the thought of explaining to those gray eyes and gay lips the undeniable fact that he had twenty-four hours of leisure to dispose of every day of his life; so he had wandered over to the dark office one morning and remarked casually179 to the gray gentleman at the desk that he might blow in every now and then and see if there was anything around for him to do. It appeared that there was plenty around—so much that he took to blowing in at about nine and blowing out at about five—and he did it not so badly, though a good clerk might have done it better. He continued to spend a generous hour over lunch, however, proving a total loss to the firm for a considerable time after he returned, sometimes in such an abandoned mood that there was a flower in his buttonhole.
62 And then it was May, and the sapphire feather was gone, and she would come in through the brown door with flowers on her drooping180 hat and pale frocks tinted181 like flowers, cool and crisp as dresses in a dream. She still had the brief case, but it was absurd to think that a stenographer would wear such hats; anything so ravishing would cost a year’s salary. When he wasn’t too busy watching the way her hair rippled182 back, showing just the tips of her ears, he would wonder whether she were a great heiress with an aversion to jewellery or a successful novelist who had to choose between pearls and Raoul’s. He had never seen even the smallest glint of jewels about her; never a gleam of beads at her throat or a brooch at her waist or a ring on her fingers—sometimes he thought that it would be pleasant to slip a long string of pearls about her neck and a band of frosted diamonds about her wrist, to see her eyes widen at their whiteness. Still, this way she was dearer, with flowers for her jewels—better leave the pearls alone—pearls were for tears.
It was incredible how radiant she looked those days; when she came through the door with her flying step and her flying smile the very kitten would purr at the sight of her; her eyes said that the secret that they knew was more delightful183 and amusing than ever, and her hands were always full of flowers.
63 And then there was the day that she came in looking so exultant67 that she frightened him; it wasn’t fair that she should look so happy when she didn’t know about the house on the hill, or the gray roadster, or the lucky person who was going to give them to her—it wasn’t fair and it was rather terrifying. Perhaps it would be better not to wait any longer to tell her about them; she couldn’t be disdainful and unkind through all that happiness. Of course he would lead up to it skilfully184. He wasn’t a blundering schoolboy; he was a man of the world, rather more than sophisticated, with all his wits about him and a light touch. He would catch her eye and smile, deferential185 and whimsical, and try some casual opening—“Our friend the kitten” or “good old Jules slower than usual—spring turns the best of us to idlers!” and the rest would follow as the night the day—or better still, as the day the night. It mightn’t be a bad idea to upset something—his wine glass, for instance; he raised a reckless hand, with a swift glance at the next table—and then he dropped it. She was reading a letter, an incredibly long letter, page after page of someone’s office paper covered with thick black words that marched triumphantly186 across the sheets, and her face was flooded with such eloquent188 light that he jerked back his head swiftly, as though he had been reading over her64 shoulder. He could not speak to her with that light on her face; he sat watching her read it through twice, feeling cold and sick and lonely. He was afraid—he was afraid—he would speak to her to-morrow——
To-morrow came, and with it his lady in a green muslin frock, and a shadowy hat wreathed with lilacs; he noted189 with a slow breath of relief that she had no brief case, no book, no letters. His coast was clear then at least; this day she had no better comrade to share her table—he would go to her, and ask her to understand. He had risen to his feet before he saw that she had not taken off her hat; she was sitting with her head a little bent, as though she was looking at something on the table, her face shadowed by the drooping hat, her hands clasped before her—and then Benedick saw what she was looking at. There was a ring on her finger, a small, trivial, inconsequential diamond, sparkling in its little golden claw like a frivolous190 dewdrop; and suddenly she bent her head, and kissed it. He sat down, slowly and stiffly—he felt old. He did not even see her go; it was Jules’ voice that made him lift his head.
“Ah, le printemps, le printemps! V’là la jolie demoiselle qui s’est fiancée.”
“Yes,” said Benedick. “Spring—in spring it is agreeable to have a fiancé.”
65 “Monsieur, perhaps, knows who she is?”
“She is more than that, if Monsieur pardons. The man whose bride she will be has a little treasure straight from the good God. What a nature—what a nature! Generous as a queen with her silver, but she turns it to gold with her smile. Monsieur has perhaps noted her smile?”
“No,” replied Monsieur, still amiably. “Bring me a bottle of the Widow Clicquot, however, and I will drink to her smile. Bring a large bottle so that I can drink often. It might be better to bring two.”
He drank both of them under the eyes of the horrified Jules; it took him all of the afternoon and part of the evening to accomplish it, but he won out. All during the hours that he sat sipping192 the yellow stuff he was driving his mind in circles, round and round over the same unyielding ground, round and round again. It was a hideous193 mistake, of course; there was nothing irretrievable in an engagement. He could make her see how impossible it was in just a few minutes; it might be a little hard on this other fellow at first, but that couldn’t be helped. He hadn’t been looking for her, starving for her, longing194 for her all the days of his life, this other fellow, had he? Probably he had told half-a-dozen girls he loved them—well,66 let him find another to tell. But Benedick—whom else had Benedick loved? No one, no one, all the days of his life.
Surely she would see that; surely when he told her about the white house and the gray roadster she would understand that he couldn’t let her go. He had been lonely too long—he had been hard and bitter and reckless too long—he would tell her how black and empty a thing was loneliness; when she saw how desperately he needed her, she would stay. When he told her about the two corner cupboards in the low-ceilinged dining room, full of lilac lustre195 and sprigged Lowestoft, and the painted red chairs in the kitchen, and the little stool for her feet with the fat white poodle embroidered196 in cross-stitch, she would see all the other things that he had never told her! There was the tarnished197 mirror with the painted clipper spreading all its sails—he had hung it so that it would catch her smile when she first crossed the threshold; there was the little room at the head of the stairs that the sun always shone into—he had built shelves there himself, and put in all his Jules Verne and R. L. S. and Oliver Optic and Robin198 Hood199 and the Three Musketeers and some unspeakably bad ones of Henty; he had been waiting for her to tell him what kind of books little girls read, and then he was going to put them67 in, too. Of course she couldn’t understand those things unless he told her—to-morrow when she came he would tell her everything and she would understand, and be sorry that she had hurt him; she would never go away again.
At eleven o’clock Jules once more despairingly suggested that Monsieur must be indeed fatigued200, and that it would perhaps be better if Monsieur retired. Monsieur, however, explained with great determination and considerable difficulty that he had an extremely important engagement to keep, and that all things considered, he would wait there until he kept it. True, it was not until to-morrow, but he was not going to take any chances; he would wait where he was. Raoul was called in, and expostulated fervently201, “Mais enfin, Monsieur! Ce n’est pas convenable202, Monsieur!”
Monsieur smiled at him, vague and obstinate203, and Raoul finally departed with a Gallic shrug, leaving poor Jules in charge, who sat nodding reproachfully in a far corner, with an occasional harrowed glance at the other occupant of the room. The other occupant sat very stiff and straight far into the night; it was toward morning that he made a curious sound, between defeat and despair, and dropped his dark head on his arms, and slept. Once he stirred, and cried desperately: “Don’t go—don’t go, don’t go!”
68 Jules was at his side in a moment, forgiving and solicitous.
“Monsieur désire?”
And Monsieur started up and stared at him strangely—only to shake his head, and once more bury it deep in his arms. It was not Jules who could get what Monsieur desired....
It was late the next morning when he waked and he consumed a huge amount of black coffee, and sat back in his corner, haggard and unshaven, with a withered204 flower in his buttonhole, waiting for her to come through the door—but she did not come. Not that day, nor the next, nor the next; he sat in his corner from twelve to two, waiting, with a carefully mocking smile on his lips and a curious expression in his eyes, wary and incredulous. He had worked himself into an extremely reasonable state of mind; a state of mind in which he was acidly amused at himself and tepidly205 interested in watching the curtain fall on the comedy—he blamed a good deal on the spring and a taste for ridiculously unbalanced literature; the whole performance was at once diverting and distasteful. This kind of mania came from turning his back on pleasant flirtations and normal affaires de c?ur; it was a neatly206 ironical207 punishment that the God of Comedy was meting208 out to pay him for his overweening sense of superiority. Well, it was69 merited—and it was over! But he still sat in the corner, watching, and the fourth day the door opened, and she came in.
She had on a gray dress, with a trail of yellow roses across her hat and a knot of them at her waist, and a breeze came in with her. She stood hesitating for a moment in the sunlight, and then she went quickly to where Geneviève sat at her high desk, and stretched out her hands, with a pretty gesture, shy and proud. The sunlight fell across them, catching209 at a circle above the diamond ring—a little golden circle, very new and bright. Benedick rose to his feet, pushing back his chair—he brushed by her so close that he could smell the roses; he closed the brown door behind him gently and leaned against it, staring down the shining street, where the green leaves danced, joyous and sedate, upon the stunted210 trees. Well, the curtain had fallen on the comedy; that was over. After a minute, he shrugged211 his shoulders, and strolled leisurely212 down to the real-estate agent and sold him the little white house, lock, stock, and barrel, including some rather good china and a lot of old junk that he had picked up here and there. It was fortunate that the young couple from Gramercy Square wanted it; he was willing to let it go for a song. Yes, there was a view of the Sound, and he’d done quite a lot of planting; oh, yes,70 there was a room that could be used as a nursery—lots of sun. There was his signature, and there was the end of it—the papers could be sent to his lawyers. He then sauntered over to his sister-in-law’s and presented her with the gray roadster; he was about fed up with motoring, and he’d changed his mind about Airedales. Dogs were a nuisance. After a little pleasant banter213 he dropped in at the club and played three extremely brilliant rubbers of auction, and signed up for a stag theatre party to see a rather nasty little French farce214. He didn’t touch any of the numerous cocktails—he wasn’t going to pay her the compliment of getting drunk again—but he laughed harder than any one at the farce, and made a good many comments that were more amusing than the play, and his best friend and his worst enemy agreed that they had never seen him in such high spirits.
He went back to the apartment humming to himself, and yawned ostentatiously for Harishidi’s benefit, and left word not to wake him in the morning—and yawned again, and went to bed. He lay there in the blackness for what seemed hours, listening to his heart beat; there was a tune215 that kept going round in his head, some idiotic216 thing by an Elizabethan—“Fair and kind”—he must go lighter217 on the coffee. “Was never face so pleased my mind——” Coffee played the deuce with your71 nerves. “Passing by——” Oh, to hell with it! He stumbled painfully out of bed, groping his way to the living room, jerking on the light with a violence that nearly broke the cord. One o’clock; the damned clock must have stopped. No, it was still ticking away, relentless218 and competent. He stood staring about him irresolutely219 for a moment, and then moved slowly to the Florentine chest, fumbling220 at the drawer. Yes, there it was—“An Elizabethan Song, Sung by Mr. Roger Grahame”—“There was a lady, fair and kind”—There was a lady—— He flung up the window with a gesture of passionate221 haste, and leaning far out, hurled222 the little black disk into deeper blackness. Far off he heard a tinkling223 splinter from the area; he closed the window, and pulled the cord on the wrought-iron lamp, and stumbled back to the Renaissance bed.
He was shaking uncontrollably, like someone in a chill, and he had a sickening desire to weep—to lay his hot cheek against some kind hand, and weep away the hardness and the bitterness and despair. Loathsome, brain-sick fool! He clenched224 his hands and glared defiance225 to the darkness, he who had not wept since a voice had ceased to read him fairy tales a long time ago. After eternities of staring the hands relaxed, and he turned his head, and slept.72 He woke with a start—there was something salt and bitter on his lips; he brushed it away fiercely, and the clock in the living room struck four. After that he did not sleep again; he set his teeth and stared wide-eyed into the shadows—he would not twice be trapped to shame. He was still lying there when the sun drifted through the window; he turned his face to the wall, so that he would not see it, but he did not unclench his teeth....
It was June, and he took a passage for Norway, and tore it up the day that the boat sailed. There was a chance in a thousand that she might need him, and it would be like that grim cat Fate to drop him off in Norway when he might serve her. For two or three days she had been looking pale; the triumphant187 happiness that for so long she had flaunted226 in his face, joyous and unheeding, was wavering like the rose-red in her lips. It was probably nothing but the heat; why couldn’t that fool she had married see that she couldn’t stand heat? She should be sitting somewhere against green pines, with the sea in her eyes and a breeze lifting the bright hair from her forehead.
She never read any more. She sat idle with her hands linked before her; it must be something worse than heat that was painting those shadows under her eyes, that look of heart-breaking patience about her lips. And Benedick, who had flinched73 from her happiness, suddenly desired it more passionately227 than he had ever desired anything else in his life. Let the cur who had touched that gay courage to this piteous submission228 give it back—let him give it back—he would ask nothing more. How could a man live black enough to make her suffer? She hardly touched the food that was placed before her; Jules hovered229 about her in distress230, and she tried to smile at him—and Benedick turned his eyes from that smile. She would sit very quiet, staring at her linked hands with their two circles, as though she were afraid to breathe—she, to whom the air had seemed flowers and wine and music. Once he saw her lips shake, terribly, though a moment later she lifted her head with the old, valiant231 gesture, and went out smiling.
Then for a day she did not come—for another day—for another—and when once more she stood in the door, Benedick felt his heart give a great leap, and stand still. She was in black, black from head to foot, with a strange little veil that hid her eyes. She crossed the room to her table, and sat down quietly, and ordered food, and ate, and drank a little wine. After Jules had taken the things away she still sat there, pressing her hands together, her lips quite steady—only when she unlinked them, he saw the faint red crescents where the nails had cut.
74 So that was why she had had shadows painted beneath her eyes; he had been ill, the man who had given her the rings; he had died. It would be cruel to break the hushed silence that hung about her with his clumsy pity, but soon he would go to her and say, “Do not be sad. Sadness is an ugly thing, believe me. I cannot give you what he gave you, perhaps, but here is the heart from my body. It is cold and hard and empty; take it in your hands, and warm it. My need of you is greater than your need of him—you can not leave me.” He would say that to her, after a little while.
The gray kitten touched her black skirt with its paw, and she caught it up swiftly, and laid her cheek against its fur. It was no longer the round puff232 that she had first smiled on, but it was still soft—it still purred. She put it down very gently, and rose, looking about her as on that first day; at the place where the fire had burned in the corner, at the pansies, jaded233 and drooping in their green pots; once again her eyes swept by Benedick as though he were not there. They lingered on Geneviève for a moment, and when they met Jules’ anxious, faithful gaze she parted her lips as though to speak, and gave it up with a little shake of her head, and smiled instead—a piteous and a lovely smile—and she was gone....
75 He never saw her again. That was not a hundred years ago—no, and it was not yesterday; the steel has come into his hair and his eyes since then, but sometimes he still goes to Raoul’s to lunch, and sits at the corner table, where he can see the brown door. Who can tell when it might open and let in the spring—who can tell what day might find her standing there once more, with her gay eyes and her tilted234 lips and the sunlight dancing in her hair?
Benedick’s best friend and his worst enemy and the world and his pretty sister-in-law are very wise, no doubt, but once—once there was a lady—— He never touched the tip of her fingers, but she was the only lady that Benedick ever loved.
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1
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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mere
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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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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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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pensively
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altruistic
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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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amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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colloquies
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| n.谈话，对话( colloquy的名词复数 ) | |
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incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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coupons
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| n.礼券( coupon的名词复数 )；优惠券；订货单；参赛表 | |
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dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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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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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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53
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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54
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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55
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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56
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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57
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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58
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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59
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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60
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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61
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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62
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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63
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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64
appraisal
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| n.对…作出的评价；评价，鉴定，评估 | |
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65
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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66
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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67
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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68
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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69
succumbed
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|
| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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70
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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71
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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72
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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73
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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74
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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75
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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76
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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77
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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78
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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79
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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80
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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81
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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82
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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83
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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84
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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85
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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86
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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87
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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88
wrenching
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| n.修截苗根，苗木铲根（铲根时苗木不起土或部分起土）v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的现在分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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89
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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91
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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92
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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93
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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94
rebuke
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|
| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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95
virtuously
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| 合乎道德地，善良地 | |
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96
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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97
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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98
cello
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| n.大提琴 | |
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99
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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100
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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101
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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102
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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103
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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104
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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105
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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106
vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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107
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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108
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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109
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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110
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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111
derisive
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|
| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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112
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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113
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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114
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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115
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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116
pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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117
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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118
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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119
posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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120
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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121
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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122
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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124
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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125
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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126
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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127
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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128
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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129
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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130
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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131
loathsome
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|
| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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132
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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133
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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134
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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135
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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136
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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137
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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138
stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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139
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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140
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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141
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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142
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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143
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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144
goblet
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| n.高脚酒杯 | |
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145
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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146
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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147
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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148
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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149
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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150
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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151
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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152
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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153
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
florist
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| n.花商；种花者 | |
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155
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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156
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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157
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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158
festively
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| adv.节日地，适合于节日地 | |
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159
meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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160
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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161
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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162
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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163
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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164
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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165
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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166
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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167
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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168
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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169
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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170
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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171
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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172
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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173
lucidly
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| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
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174
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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175
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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176
auctions
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| n.拍卖，拍卖方式( auction的名词复数 ) | |
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177
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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178
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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179
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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180
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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181
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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185
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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186
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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194
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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convenable
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| 可召集的，可召唤的 | |
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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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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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tepidly
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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meting
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的现在分词 ) | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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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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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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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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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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228
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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229
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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232
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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