Mr. Caryll was—as I hope you have gathered—an agreeable fellow, very free, moreover, with the contents of his well-equipped purse; and so you may conceive that the town showed him a very friendly, cordial countenance8. He fell into the habits of the men whose company he frequented; his days were as idle as theirs, and spent at the parade, the Ring, the play, the coffeehouse and the ordinary.
But under the gay exterior9 he affected10 he carried a spirit of most vile11 unrest. The anger which had prompted his impulse to execute, after all, the business on which he was come, and to deliver his father the letter that was to work his ruin, was all spent. He had cooled, and cool it was idle for him to tell himself that Lord Ostermore, by his heartless allusion12 to the crime of his early years, had proved himself worthy13 of nothing but the pit Mr. Caryll had been sent to dig for him. There were moments when he sought to compel himself so to think, to steel himself against all other considerations. But it was idle. The reflection that the task before him was unnatural14 came ever to revolt him. To gain ease, the most that he could do—and he had the faculty15 of it developed in a preternatural degree—was to put the business from him for the time, endeavor to forget it. And he had another matter to consider and to plague him—the matter of Hortensia Winthrop. He thought of her a great deal more than was good for his peace of mind, for all that he pretended to a gladness that things were as they were. Each morning that he lounged at the parade in St. James's Park, each evening that he visited the Ring, it was in the hope of catching16 some glimpse of her among the fashionable women that went abroad to see and to be seen. And on the third morning after his arrival the thing he hoped for came to pass.
It had happened that my lady had ordered her carriage that morning, dressed herself with the habitual17 splendor18, which but set off the shortcomings of her lean and angular person, egregiously19 coiffed, pulvilled and topknotted, and she had sent a message amounting to a command to Mistress Winthrop that she should drive in the park with her.
Poor Hortensia, whose one desire was to hide her face from the town's uncharitable sight just then, fearing, indeed, that Rumor20's unscrupulous tongue would be as busy about her reputation as her ladyship had represented, attempted to assert herself by refusing to obey the command. It was in vain. Her ladyship dispensed21 with ambassadors, and went in person to convey her orders to her husband's ward22, and to enforce them.
“What's this I am told?” quoth she, as she sailed into Hortensia's room. “Do my wishes count for nothing, that you send me pert answers by my woman?”
Hortensia rose. She had been sitting by the window, a book in her lap. “Not so, indeed, madam. Not pert, I trust. I am none so well, and I fear the sun.”
“'Tis little wonder,” laughed her ladyship; “and I'm glad on't, for it shows ye have a conscience somewhere. But 'tis no matter for that. I am tender for your reputation, mistress, and I'll not have you shunning24 daylight like the guilty thing ye know yourself to be.”
“'Tis false, madam,” said Hortensia, with indignation. “Your ladyship knows it to be false.”
“Harkee, ninny, if you'd have the town believe it false, you'll show yourself—show that ye have no cause for shame, no cause to hide you from the eyes of honest folk. Come, girl; bid your woman get your hood26 and tippet. The carriage stays for us.”
To Hortensia her ladyship's seemed, after all, a good argument. Did she hide, what must the town think but that it confirmed the talk that she made no doubt was going round already. Better to go forth27 and brave it, and surely it should disarm28 the backbiters if she showed herself in the park with Lord Rotherby's own mother.
It never occurred to her that this seeming tenderness for her reputation might be but wanton cruelty on her ladyship's part; a gratifying of her spleen against the girl by setting her in the pillory29 of public sight to the end that she should experience the insult of supercilious30 glances and lips that smile with an ostentation31 of furtiveness32; a desire to put down her pride and break the spirit which my lady accounted insolent33 and stubborn.
Suspecting naught34 of this, she consented, and drove out with her ladyship as she was desired to do. But understanding of her ladyship's cruel motives36, and repentance37 of her own acquiescence38, were not long in following. Soon—very soon—she realized that anything would have been better than the ordeal39 she was forced to undergo.
It was a warm, sunny morning, and the park was crowded with fashionable loungers. Lady Ostermore left her carriage at the gates, and entered the enclosure on foot, accompanied by Hortensia and followed at a respectful distance by a footman. Her arrival proved something of a sensation. Hats were swept off to her ladyship, sly glances flashed at her companion, who went pale, but apparently40 serene41, eyes looking straight before her; and there was an obvious concealing42 of smiles at first, which later grew to be all unconcealed, and, later still, became supplemented by remarks that all might hear, remarks which did not escape—as they were meant not to escape—her ladyship and Mistress Winthrop.
“Madam,” murmured the girl, in her agony of shame, “we were not well-advised to come. Will not your ladyship turn back?”
Her ladyship displayed a vinegary smile, and looked at her companion over the top of her slowly moving fan. “Why? Is't not pleasant here?” quoth she. “'Twill be more agreeable under the trees yonder. The sun will not reach you there, child.”
“'Tis not the sun I mind, madam,” said Hortensia, but received no answer. Perforce she must pace on beside her ladyship.
Lord Rotherby came by, arm in arm with his friend, the Duke of Wharton. It was a one-sided friendship. Lord Rotherby was but one of the many of his type who furnished a court, a valetaille, to the gay, dissolute, handsome, witty44 duke, who might have been great had he not preferred his vices45 to his worthier46 parts.
As they went by, Lord Rotherby bared his head and bowed, as did his companion. Her ladyship smiled upon him, but Hortensia's eyes looked rigidly47 ahead, her face a stone. She heard his grace's insolent laugh as they passed on; she heard his voice—nowise subdued49, for he was a man who loved to let the world hear what he might have to say.
“Gad50! Rotherby, the wind has changed! Your Dulcinea flies with you o' Wednesday, and has ne'er a glance for you o' Saturday! I' faith! ye deserve no better. Art a clumsy gallant51 to have been overtaken, and the maid's in the right on't to resent your clumsiness.”
Rotherby's reply was lost in a splutter of laughter from a group of sycophants52 who had overheard his grace's criticism and were but too ready to laugh at aught his grace might deign53 to utter. Her cheeks burned; it was by an effort that she suppressed the tears that anger was forcing to her eyes.
The duke, 'twas plain, had set the fashion. Emulators were not wanting. Stray words she caught; by instinct was she conscious of the oglings, the fluttering of fans from the women, the flashing of quizzing-glasses from the men. And everywhere was there a suppressed laugh, a stifled54 exclamation55 of surprise at her appearance in public—yet not so stifled but that it reached her, as it was intended that it should.
In the shadow of a great elm, around which there was a seat, a little group had gathered, of which the centre was the sometime toast of the town and queen of many Wells, the Lady Mary Deller, still beautiful and still unwed—as is so often the way of reigning57 toasts—but already past her pristine58 freshness, already leaning upon the support of art to maintain the endowments she had had from nature. She was accounted witty by the witless, and by some others.
Of the group that paid its court to her and her companions—two giggling59 cousins in their first season were Mr. Caryll and his friends, Sir Harry60 Collis and Mr. Edward Stapleton, the former of whom—he was the lady's brother-in-law—had just presented him. Mr. Caryll was dressed with even more than his ordinary magnificence. He was in dove-colored cloth, his coat very richly laced with gold, his waistcoat—of white brocade with jeweled buttons, the flower-pattern outlined in finest gold thread—descended midway to his knees, whilst the ruffles61 at his wrists and the Steinkirk at his throat were of the finest point. He cut a figure of supremest elegance63, as he stood there, his chestnut64 head slightly bowed in deference65 as my Lady Mary spoke66, his hat tucked under his arm, his right hand outstretched beside him to rest upon the gold head of his clouded-amber67 cane68.
To the general he was a stranger still in town, and of the sort that draws the eye and provokes inquiry69. Lady Mary, the only goal of whose shallow existence was the attention of the sterner sex, who loved to break hearts as a child breaks toys, for the fun of seeing how they look when broken—and who, because of that, had succeeded in breaking far fewer than she fondly imagined—looked up into his face with the “most perditiously alluring” eyes in England—so Mr. Craske, the poet, who stood at her elbow now, had described them in the dedicatory sonnet70 of his last book of poems. (Wherefore, in parenthesis71 be it observed, she had rewarded him with twenty guineas, as he had calculated that she would.)
There was a sudden stir in the group. Mr. Craske had caught sight of Lady Ostermore and Mistress Winthrop, and he fell to giggling, a flimsy handkerchief to his painted lips. “Oh, 'Sbud!” he bleated72. “Let me die! The audaciousness of the creature! And behold73 me the port and glance of her! Cold as a vestal, let me perish!”
Lady Mary turned with the others to look in the direction he was pointing—pointing openly, with no thought of dissembling.
Mr. Caryll's eyes fell upon Mistress Winthrop, and his glance was oddly perceptive74. He observed those matters of which Mr. Craske had seemed to make sardonic75 comment: the erect76 stiffness of her carriage, the eyes that looked neither to right nor left, and the pallor of her face. He observed, too, the complacent78 air with which her ladyship advanced beside her husband's ward, her fan moving languidly, her head nodding to her acquaintance, as in supreme62 unconcern of the stir her coming had effected.
Mr. Caryll had been dull indeed, knowing what he knew, had he not understood to the full the humiliation79 to which Mistress Hortensia was being of purpose set submitted.
And just then Rotherby, who had turned, with Wharton and another now, came by them again. This time he halted, and his companions with him, for just a moment, to address his mother. She turned; there was an exchange of greetings, in which Mistress Hortensia standing35 rigid48 as stone—took no part. A silence fell about; quizzing-glasses went up; all eyes were focussed upon the group. Then Rotherby and his friends resumed their way.
“The dog!” said Mr. Caryll, between his teeth, but went unheard by any, for in that moment Dorothy Deller—the younger of the Lady Mary's cousins—gave expression to the generous and as yet unsullied little heart that was her own.
The Lady Mary stiffened81. She looked at the company about her with an apologetic smile. “I beg that ye'll not heed82 the child,” said she. “'Tis not that she is without morals—but without knowledge. An innocent little fool; no worse.”
“'Tis bad enough, I vow83,” laughed an old beau, who sought fame as a man of a cynical84 turn of humor.
“But fortunately rare,” said Mr. Caryll dryly. “Like charity, almost unknown in this Babylon.”
His tone was not quite nice, although perhaps the Lady Mary was the only one to perceive the note of challenge in it. But Mr. Craske, the poet, diverted attention to himself by a prolonged, malicious85 chuckle86. Rotherby was just moving away from his mother at that moment.
“They've never a word for each other to-day!” he cried. “Oh, 'Sbud! not so much as the mercy of a glance will the lady afford him.” And he burst into the ballad87 of King Francis:
“Souvent femme varie,
Bien, fol est qui s'y fie!”
Mr. Caryll put up his gold-rimmed quizzing-glass, and directed through that powerful weapon of offence an eye of supreme displeasure upon the singer. He could not contain his rage, yet from his languid tone none would have suspected it. “Sir,” said he, “ye've a singular unpleasant voice.”
Mr. Craske, thrown out of countenance by so much directness, could only stare; the same did the others, though some few tittered, for Mr. Craske, when all was said, was held in no great esteem90 by the discriminant.
Mr. Caryll lowered his glass. “I've heard it said by the uncharitable that ye were a lackey91 before ye became a plagiarist92. 'Tis a rumor I shall contradict in future; 'tis plainly a lie, for your voice betrays you to have been a chairman.”
“Sir—sir—” spluttered the poetaster, crimson93 with anger and mortification94. “Is this—is this—seemly—between gentlemen?”
“Between gentlemen it would not be seemly,” Mr. Caryll agreed.
Mr. Craske, quivering, yet controlling himself, bowed stiffly. “I have too much respect for myself—” he gasped95.
“Ye'll be singular in that, no doubt,” said Mr. Caryll, and turned his shoulder upon him.
Again Mr. Craske appeared to make an effort at self-control; again he bowed. “I know—I hope—what is due to the Lady Mary Deller, to—to answer you as—as befits. But you shall hear from me, sir. You shall hear from me.”
He bowed a third time—a bow that took in the entire company—and withdrew in high dudgeon and with a great show of dignity. A pause ensued, and then the Lady Mary reproved Mr. Caryll.
“Oh, 'twas cruel in you, sir,” she cried. “Poor Mr. Craske! And to dub96 him plagiarist! 'Twas the unkindest cut of all!”
“Truth, madam, is never kind.”
“Oh, fie! You make bad worse!” she cried.
“He'll put you in the pillory of his verse for this,” laughed Collis. “Ye'll be most scurvily97 lampooned98 for't.”
“Poor Mr. Craske!” sighed the Lady Mary again.
“Poor, indeed; but not in the sense to deserve pity. An upstart impostor such as that to soil a lady with his criticism!”
Lady Mary's brows went up. “You use a singular severity, sir,” she opined, “and I think it unwise in you to grow so hot in the defence of a reputation whose owner has so little care for it herself.”
Mr. Caryll looked at her out of his level gray-green eyes; a hot answer quivered on his tongue, an answer that had crushed her venom99 for some time and had probably left him with a quarrel on his hands. Yet his smile, as he considered her, was very sweet, so sweet that her ladyship, guessing nothing of the bitterness it was used to cover, went as near a smirk100 as it was possible for one so elegant. He was, she judged, another victim ripe for immolation101 on the altar of her goddessship. And Mr. Caryll, who had taken her measure very thoroughly102, seeing something of how her thoughts were running, bethought him of a sweeter vengeance103.
“Lady Mary,” he cried, a soft reproach in his voice, “I have been sore mistook in you if you are one to be guided by the rabble104.” And he waved a hand toward the modish105 throng106.
She knit her fine brows, bewildered.
“Ah!” he cried, interpreting her glance to suit his ends, “perish the thought, indeed! I knew that I could not be wrong. I knew that one so peerless in all else must be peerless, too, in her opinions; judging for herself, and standing firm upon her judgment107 in disdain108 of meaner souls—mere109 sheep to follow their bell-wether.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing, being too intrigued110 by this sudden and most sweet flattery. Her mere beauty had oft been praised, and in terms that glowed like fire. But what was that compared with this fine appreciation111 of her less obvious mental parts—and that from one who had seen the world?
Mr. Caryll was bending over her. “What a chance is here,” he was murmuring, “to mark your lofty detachment—to show how utter is your indifference112 to what the common herd113 may think.”
“As—as how?” she asked, blinking up at him.
The others stood at gaze, scarce yet suspecting the drift of so much talk.
“There is a poor lady yonder, of whose fair name a bubble is being blown and pricked114. I dare swear there's not a woman here durst speak to her. Yet what a chance for one that dared! How fine a triumph would be hers!” He sighed. “Heigho! I almost wish I were a woman, that I might make that triumph mine and mark my superiority to these painted dolls that have neither wit nor courage.”
The Lady Mary rose, a faint color in her cheeks, a sparkle in her fine eyes. A great joy flashed into Mr. Caryll's in quick response; a joy in her—she thought with ready vanity—and a heightening admiration115.
“Will you make it yours, as it should be—as it must ever be—to lead and not to follow?” he cried, flattering incredibility trembling in his voice.
“And why not, sir?” she demanded, now thoroughly aroused.
“Why not, indeed—since you are you?” quoth he. “It is what I had hoped in you, and yet—and yet what I had almost feared to hope.”
She frowned upon him now, so excellently had he done his work. “Why should you have feared that?”
“Alas! I am a man of little faith—unworthy, indeed, your good opinion since I entertained a doubt. It was a blasphemy116.”
She smiled again. “You acknowledge your faults with such a grace,” said she, “that we must needs forgive them. And now to show you how much you need forgiveness. Come, children,” she bade her cousins—for whose innocence117 she had made apology but a moment back. “Your arm, Harry,” she begged her brother-in-law.
Sir Harry obeyed her readily, but without eagerness. In his heart he cursed his friend Caryll for having set her on to this.
Mr. Caryll himself hung upon her other side, his eyes toward Lady Ostermore and Hortensia, who, whilst being observed by all, were being approached by few; and these few confined themselves to an exchange of greetings with her ladyship, which constituted a worse offence to Mistress Winthrop than had they stayed away.
Suddenly, as if drawn118 by his ardent119 gaze, Hortensia's eyes moved at last from their forward fixity. Her glance met Mr. Caryll's across the intervening space. Instantly he swept off his hat, and bowed profoundly. The action drew attention to himself. All eyes were focussed upon him, and between many a pair there was a frown for one who should dare thus to run counter to the general attitude.
But there was more to follow. The Lady Mary accepted Mr. Caryll's salutation of Hortensia as a signal. She led the way promptly120, and the little band swept forward, straight for its goal, raked by the volleys from a thousand eyes, under which the Lady Mary already began to giggle121 excitedly.
Thus they reached the countess, the countess standing very rigid in her amazement122, to receive them.
“I hope I see your ladyship well,” said Lady Mary.
Mistress Winthrop's eyes were lowered; her cheeks were scarlet124. Her distress was plain, born of her doubt of the Lady Mary's purpose, and suspense125 as to what might follow.
“I have not the honor of your ward's acquaintance, Lady Ostermore,” said Lady Mary, whilst the men were bowing, and her cousins curtseying to the countess and her companion collectively.
The countess gasped, recovered, and eyed the speaker without any sign of affection. “My husband's ward, ma'am,” she corrected, in a voice that seemed to discourage further mention of Hortensia.
“'Tis but a distinction,” put in Mr. Caryll suggestively.
“Indeed, yes. Will not your ladyship present me?” The countess' malevolent126 eyes turned a moment upon Mr. Caryll, smiling demurely127 at Lady Mary's elbow. In his face—as well as in the four words he had uttered—she saw that here was work of his, and he gained nothing in her favor by it. Meanwhile there were no grounds—other than such as must have been wantonly offensive to the Lady Mary, and so not to be dreamed of—upon which to refuse her request. The countess braced128 herself, and with an ill grace performed the brief ceremony of presentation.
Mistress Winthrop looked up an instant, then down again; it was a piteous, almost a pleading glance.
Lady Mary, leaving the countess to Sir Harry Stapleton, Caryll and the others, moved to Hortensia's side for a moment she was at loss what to say, and took refuge in a commonplace.
“I have long desired the pleasure of your acquaintance,” said she.
“I am honored, madam,” replied Hortensia, with downcast eyes. Then lifting them with almost disconcerting suddenness. “Your ladyship has chosen an odd season in which to gratify this desire with which you honor me.”
Lady Mary laughed, as much at the remark as for the benefit of those whose eyes were upon her. She knew there would not be wanting many who would condemn129 her; but these should be far outnumbered by those who would be lost in admiration of her daring, that she could so fly in the face of public opinion; and she was grateful to Mr. Caryll for having suggested to her a course of such distinction.
“I could have chosen no better season,” she replied, “to mark my scorn of evil tongues and backbiters.”
Color stained Hortensia's cheek again; gratitude130 glowed in her eyes. “You are very noble, madam,” she answered with flattering earnestness.
“La!” said the Lady Mary. “Is nobility, then, so easily achieved?” And thereafter they talked of inconsequent trifles, until Mr. Caryll moved towards them, and Lady Mary turned aside to speak to the countess.
At Mr. Caryll's approach Hortensia's eyes had been lowered again, and she made no offer to address him as he stood before her now, hat under arm, leaning easily upon his amber cane.
“Oh, heart of stone!” said he at last. “Am I not yet forgiven?”
She misread his meaning—perhaps already the suspicion she now voiced had been in her mind. She looked up at him sharply. “Was it—was it you who fetched the Lady Mary to me?” she inquired.
“Lo!” said he. “You have a voice! Now Heaven be praised! I was fearing it was lost for me—that you had made some awful vow never again to rejoice my ears with the music of it.”
“You have not answered my question,” she reminded him.
“Nor you mine,” said he. “I asked you am I not yet forgiven.”
“Forgiven what?”
She flushed deeply. “If you would win forgiveness, you should not remind me of the offence,” she answered low.
“Nay,” he rejoined, “that is to confound forgiveness with forgetfulness. I want you to forgive and yet to remember.”
“What else? 'Tis nothing less will satisfy me.”
“You expect too much,” she answered, with a touch that was almost of sternness.
He shrugged133 and smiled whimsically. “It is my way,” he said apologetically. “Nature has made me expectant, and life, whilst showing me the folly134 of it, has not yet cured me.”
She looked at him, and repeated her earlier question. “Was it at your bidding that Lady Mary came to speak with me?”
“Fie!” he cried. “What insinuations do you make against her?”
“Insinuations?”
“What else? That she should do things at my bidding!”
“It fails of its object, then,” said she, “for it deludes136 no one.” She paused and laughed at his look of assumed blankness. “I am deeply beholden to you,” she whispered quickly, breathing at once gratitude and confusion.
More he might have added then, for the mad mood was upon him, awakened138 by those soft brown eyes of hers. But in that moment the others of that little party crowded upon them to take their leave of Mistress Winthrop.
Mr. Caryll felt satisfied that enough had been done to curb139 the slander140 concerning Hortensia. But he was not long in learning how profound was his mistake. On every side he continued to hear her discussed, and in such terms as made his ears tingle141 and his hands itch142 to be at work in her defence; for, with smirks143 and sneers144 and innuendoes145, her escapade with Lord Rotherby continued to furnish a topic for the town as her ladyship had sworn it would. Yet by what right could he espouse146 her cause with any one of her defamers without bringing her fair name into still more odious147 notoriety?
And meanwhile he knew that he was under strict surveillance from Mr. Green; knew that he was watched wherever he went; and nothing but his confidence that no evidence could be produced against him allowed him to remain, as he did, all unconcerned of this.
Leduc had more than once seen Mr. Green about Old Palace Yard, besides a couple of his underlings, one or the other of whom was never absent from the place, no doubt with intent to observe who came and went at Mr. Caryll's. Once, indeed, during the absence of master and servant, Mr. Caryll's lodging was broken into, and on Leduc's return he found a confusion which told him how thoroughly the place had been ransacked148.
If Mr. Caryll had had anything to hide, this would have given him the hint to take his precautions; but as he had nothing that was in the least degree in incriminating, he went his ways in supremest unconcern of the vigilance exerted over him. He used, however, a greater discretion149 in the resorts he frequented. And if upon occasion he visited such Tory meeting-places as the Bell Tavern150 in King Street or the Cocoa-Tree in Pall77 Mall, he was still more often to be found at White's, that ultra-Whig resort.
It was at this latter house, one evening three or four days after his meeting with Hortensia in the park, that the chance was afforded him at last of vindicating151 her honor in a manner that need not add to the scandal that was already abroad, nor serve to couple his name with hers unduly152. And it was Lord Rotherby himself who afforded him the opportunity.
The thing fell out in this wise: Mr. Caryll was at cards with Harry Collis and Stapleton and Major Gascoigne, in a room above-stairs. There were at least a dozen others present, some also at play, others merely lounging. Of the latter was his Grace of Wharton. He was a slender, graceful153 gentleman, whose face, if slightly effeminate and markedly dissipated, was nevertheless of considerable beauty. He was very splendid in a suit of green camlett and silver lace, and he wore a flaxen periwig without powder.
He was awaiting Rotherby, with whom—as he told the company—he was for a frolic at Drury Lane, where a ridotto was following the play. He spoke, as usual, in a loud voice that all might hear, and his talk was loose and heavily salted as became the talk of a rake of his exalted154 rank. It was chiefly concerned with airing his bitter grievance155 against Mrs. Girdlebank, of the Theatre Royal, of whom he announced himself “devilishly enamoured.”
He inveighed156 against her that she should have the gross vulgarity to love her husband, and against her husband that he should have the audacity157 to play the watchdog over her, and bark and growl158 at the duke's approach.
“Nay, now, but I'm a husband myself, gad!” protested Mr. Sidney, who was quite the most delicate, mincing160 man of fashion about town, and one of that valetaille that hovered161 about his Grace of Wharton's heels.
“'Tis no matter in your case,” said the duke, with that contempt he used towards his followers162. “Your wife's too ugly to be looked at.” And Mr. Sidney's fresh protest was drowned in the roar of laughter that went up to applaud that brutal163 frankness. Mr. Caryll turned to the fop, who happened to be standing at his elbow.
“Never repine, man,” said he. “In the company you keep, such a wife makes for peace of mind. To have that is to have much.”
Wharton resumed his railings at the Girdlebanks, and was still at them when Rotherby came in.
“At last, Charles!” the duke hailed him, rising. “Another minute, and I had gone without you.”
But Rotherby scarce looked at him, and answered with unwonted shortness. His eyes had discovered Mr. Caryll. It was the first time he had run against him since that day, over a week ago, at Stretton House, and at sight of him now all Rotherby's spleen was moved. He stood and stared, his dark eyes narrowing, his cheeks flushing slightly under their tan. Wharton, who had approached him, observing his sudden halt, his sudden look of concentration, asked him shortly what might ail23 him.
“I have seen someone I did not expect to find in a resort of gentlemen,” said Rotherby, his eyes ever on Mr. Caryll, who—engrossed in his game—was all unconscious of his lordship's advent165.
Wharton followed the direction of his companion's gaze, and giving now attention himself to Mr. Caryll, he fell to appraising166 his genteel appearance, negligent167 of the insinuation in what Rotherby had said.
“'Sdeath!” swore the duke. “'Tis a man of taste—a travelled gentleman by his air. Behold me the grace of that shoulder-knot, Charles, and the set of that most admirable coat. Fifty guineas wouldn't buy his Steinkirk. Who is this beau?”
“I'll present him to your grace,” said Rotherby shortly. He had pretentions at being a beau himself; but his grace—supreme arbiter168 in such matters—had never yet remarked it.
They moved across the room, greetings passing as they went. At their approach, Mr. Caryll looked up. Rotherby made him a leg with an excessive show of deference, arguing irony169. “'Tis an unlooked-for pleasure to meet you here, sir,” said he in a tone that drew the attention of all present.
“No pleasures are so sweet as the unexpected,” answered Mr. Caryll, with casual amiability170, and since he perceived at once the errand upon which Lord Rotherby was come to him, he went half-way to meet him. “Has your lordship been contracting any marriages of late?” he inquired.
The viscount smiled icily. “You have quick wits, sir,” said he, “which is as it should be in one who lives by them.”
“Let your lordship be thankful that such is not your own case,” returned Mr. Caryll, with imperturbable171 good humor, and sent a titter round the room.
“A hit! A shrewd hit, 'pon honor!” cried Wharton, tapping his snuff-box. “I vow to Gad, Ye're undone172, Charles. Ye'd better play at repartee173 with Gascoigne, there. Ye're more of a weight.”
“Your grace,” cried Rotherby, suppressing at great cost his passion, “'tis not to be borne that a fellow of this condition should sit among men of quality.” And with that he swung round and addressed the company in general. “Gentlemen, do you know who this fellow is? He has the effrontery174 to take my name, and call himself Caryll.”
Mr. Caryll looked a moment at his brother in the silence that followed. Then, as in a flash, he saw his chance of vindicating Mistress Winthrop, and he seized it.
“And do you know, gentlemen, who this fellow is?” he inquired, with an air of sly amusement. “He is—Nay, you shall judge for yourselves. You shall hear the story of how we met; it is the story of his abduction of a lady whose name need not be mentioned; the story of his dastardly attempt to cozen175 her into a mock-marriage.”
“Mock—mock-marriage?” cried the duke and a dozen others with him, some in surprise, but most in an unbelief that was already faintly tinged176 with horror—which argued ill for my Lord Rotherby when the story should be told.
“You damned rogue—” began his lordship, and would have flung himself upon Caryll, but that Collis and Stapleton, and Wharton himself, put forth hands to stay him by main force.
Others, too, had risen. But Mr. Caryll sat quietly in his chair, idly fingering the cards before him, and smiling gently, between amusement and irony. He was much mistaken if he did not make Lord Rotherby bitterly regret the initiative he had taken in their quarrel.
“Gently, my lord,” the duke admonished177 the viscount. “This—this gentleman has said that which touches your honor. He shall say more. He shall make good his words, or eat them. But the matter cannot rest thus.”
“It shall not, by God!” swore Rotherby, purple now. “It shall not. I'll kill him like a dog for what he has said.”
“But before I die, gentlemen,” said Mr. Caryll, “it were well that you should have the full story of that sorry adventure from an eye-witness.”
“An eye-witness? Were ye present?” cried two or three in a breath.
“I desire to lay before you all the story of how we met my lord there and I. It is so closely enmeshed with the story of that abduction and mock-marriage that the one is scarce to be distinguished178 from the other.”
“Will ye listen to this fellow?” he roared. “He's a spy, I tell you—a Jacobite spy!” He was beside himself with anger and apprehension180, and he never paused to weigh the words he uttered. It was with him a question of stopping his accuser's mouth with whatever mud came under his hands. “He has no right here. It is not to be borne. I know not by what means he has thrust himself among you, but—”
“That is a knowledge I can afford your lordship,” came Stapleton's steady voice to interrupt the speaker. “Mr. Caryll is here by my invitation.”
“And by mine and Gascoigne's here,” added Sir Harry Collis, “and I will answer for his quality to any man who doubts it.”
Rotherby glared at Mr. Caryll's sponsors, struck dumb by this sudden and unexpected refutation of the charge he had leveled.
Wharton, who had stepped aside, knit his brows and flashed his quizzing-glass—through sheer force of habit—upon Lord Rotherby. Then:
“You'll pardon me, Harry,” said he, “but you'll see, I hope, that the question is not impertinent; that I put it to the end that we may clearly know with whom we have to deal and what consideration to extend him, what credit to attach to the communication he is to make us touching181 my lord here. Under what circumstances did you become acquainted with Mr. Caryll?”
“I have known him these twelve years,” answered Collis promptly; “so has Stapleton, so has Gascoigne, so have a dozen other gentlemen who could be produced, and who, like ourselves, were at Oxford with him. For myself and Stapleton, I can say that our acquaintance—indeed, I should say our friendship—with Mr. Caryll has been continuous since then, and that we have visited him on several occasions at his estate of Maligny in Normandy. That he habitually182 inhabits the country of his birth is the reason why Mr. Caryll has not hitherto had the advantage of your grace's acquaintance. Need I say more to efface183 the false statement made by my Lord Rotherby?”
“False? Do you dare give me the lie, sir?” roared Rotherby.
But the duke soothed184 him. Under his profligate185 exterior his Grace of Wharton concealed—indeed, wasted—a deal of shrewdness, ability and inherent strength. “One thing at a time, my lord,” said the president of the Bold Bucks. “Let us attend to the matter of Mr. Caryll.”
“Dons and the devil! Does your grace take sides with him?”
“I take no sides. But I owe it to myself—we all owe it to ourselves—that this matter should be cleared.”
Rotherby leered at him, his lip trembling with anger. “Does the president of the Bold Bucks pretend to administrate a court of honor?” he sneered186 heavily.
“Your lordship will gain little by this,” Wharton admonished him, so coldly that Rotherby belatedly came to some portion of his senses again. The duke turned to Caryll. “Mr. Caryll,” said he, “Sir Harry has given you very handsome credentials187, which would seem to prove you worthy the hospitality of White's. You have, however, permitted yourself certain expressions concerning his lordship here, which we cannot allow to remain where you have left them. You must retract188, sir, or make them good.” His gravity, and the preciseness of his diction now, sorted most oddly with his foppish189 airs.
Mr. Caryll closed his snuff-box with a snap. A hush190 fell instantly upon the company, which by now was all crowding about the little table at which sat Mr. Caryll and his three friends. A footman who entered at the moment to snuff the candles and see what the gentlemen might be requiring, was dismissed the room. When the door had closed, Mr. Caryll began to speak.
One more attempt was made by Rotherby to interfere191, but this attempt was disposed of by Wharton, who had constituted himself entirely192 master of the proceedings193.
“If you will not allow Mr. Caryll to speak, we shall infer that you fear what he may have to say; you will compel us to hear him in your absence, and I cannot think that you would prefer that, my lord.”
My lord fell silent. He was breathing heavily, and his face was pale, his eyes angry beyond words, what time Mr. Caryll, in amiable194, musical voice, with its precise and at moments slightly foreign enunciation195, unfolded the shameful story of the affair at the “Adam and Eve,” at Maidstone. He told a plain, straightforward196 tale, making little attempt to reproduce any of its color, giving his audience purely197 and simply the facts that had taken place. He told how he himself had been chosen as a witness when my lord had heard that there was a traveller from France in the house, and showed how that slight circumstance had first awakened his suspicions of foul198 play. He provoked some amusement when he dealt with his detection and exposure of the sham25 parson. But in the main he was heard with a stern and ominous199 attention—ominous for Lord Rotherby.
Rakes these men admittedly were with but few exceptions. No ordinary tale of gallantry could have shocked them, or provoked them to aught but a contemptuous mirth at the expense of the victim, male or female. They would have thought little the worse of a man for running off with the wife, say, of one of his acquaintance; they would have thought nothing of his running off with a sister or a daughter—so long as it was not of their own. All these were fair game, and if the husband, father or brother could not protect the wife, sister or daughter that was his, the more shame to him. But though they might be fair game, the game had its rules—anomalous as it may seem. These rules Lord Rotherby—if the tale Mr. Caryll told was true—had violated. He had practiced a cheat, the more dastardly because the poor lady who had so narrowly escaped being his victim had nether200 father nor brother to avenge201 her. And in every eye that was upon him Lord Rotherby might have read, had he had the wit to do so, the very sternest condemnation202.
“A pretty story, as I've a soul!” was his grace's comment, when Mr. Caryll had done. “A pretty story, my Lord Rotherby. I have a stomach for strong meat myself. But—odds my life!—this is too nauseous!”
Rotherby glared at him. “'Slife! your grace is grown very nice on a sudden!” he sneered. “The president of the Bold Bucks, the master of the Hell Fire Club, is most oddly squeamish where the diversions of another are concerned.”
“Diversions?” said his grace, his eyebrows203 raised until they all but vanished under the golden curls of his peruke. “Diversions? Ha! I observe that you make no attempt to deny the story. You admit it, then?”
There was a stir in the group, a drawing back from his lordship. He observed it, trembling between chagrin204 and rage. “What's here?” he cried, and laughed contemptuously. “Oh, ah! You'll follow where his grace leads you! Ye've followed him so long in lewdness205 that now yell follow him in conversion206! But as for you, sir,” and he swung fiercely upon Caryll, “you and your precious story—will you maintain it sword in hand?”
“I can do better,” answered Mr. Caryll, “if any doubts my word.”
“As how?”
“I can prove it categorically, by witnesses.”
“Well said, Caryll,” Stapleton approved him.
“And if I say that you lie—you and your witnesses?”
“'T is you will be liar,” said Mr. Caryll.
“Besides, it is a little late for that,” cut in the duke.
“Your grace,” cried Rotherby, “is this affair yours?”
“No, I thank Heaven!” said his grace, and sat down.
Rotherby scowled207 at the man who until ten minutes ago had been his friend and boon208 companion, and there was more of contempt than anger in his eyes. He turned again to Mr. Caryll, who was watching him with a gleam of amusement—that infernally irritating amusement of his—in his gray-green eyes.
“Well?” he demanded foolishly, “have you naught to say?”
“I had thought,” returned Mr. Caryll, “that I had said enough.” And the duke laughed aloud.
Rotherby's lip was curled. “Ha! You don't think, now, that you may have said too much?”
“Ay, by God! Too much for a gentleman to leave unpunished.”
“Possibly. But what gentleman is concerned in this?”
“I am!” thundered Rotherby.
“I see. And how do you conceive that you answer the description?”
Rotherby swore at him with great choice and variety. “You shall learn,” he promised him. “My friends shall wait on you to-night.”
“I wonder who will carry his message?” ventured Collis to the ceiling. Rotherby turned on him, fierce as a rat. “It is a matter you may discover to your cost, Sir Harry,” he snarled210.
“I think,” put in his grace very languidly, “that you are troubling the harmony that is wont164 to reign56 here.”
His lordship stood still a moment. Then, quite suddenly, he snatched up a candlestick to hurl211 at Mr. Caryll. But he had it wrenched212 from his hands ere he could launch it.
He stood a moment, discomfited213, glowering214 upon his brother. “My friends shall wait on you to-night,” he repeated.
“You said so before,” Mr. Caryll replied wearily. “I shall endeavor to make them welcome.”
His lordship nodded stupidly, and strode to the door. His departure was observed in silence. On every face he read his sentence. These men—rakes though they were, professedly—would own him no more for their associate; and what these men thought to-night not a gentleman in town but would be thinking the same tomorrow. He had the stupidity to lay it all to the score of Mr. Caryll, not perceiving that he had brought it upon himself by his own aggressiveness. He paused, his hand upon the doorknob, and turned to loose a last shaft215 at them.
“As for you others, that follow your bell-wether there,” and he indicated his grace, whose shoulder was towards him, “this matter ends not here.”
Major Gascoigne was gathering217 up the cards that had been flung down when first the storm arose. Mr. Caryll bent218 to assist him. And the last voice Lord Rotherby heard as he departed was Mr. Caryll's, and the words it uttered were: “Come, Ned; the deal is with you.”
His lordship swore through his teeth, and went downstairs heavily.
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收听单词发音
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1
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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sedition
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| n.煽动叛乱 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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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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behooved
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| v.适宜( behoove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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8
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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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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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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egregiously
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| adv.过份地，卓越地 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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23
ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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29
pillory
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| n.嘲弄；v.使受公众嘲笑；将…示众 | |
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30
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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31
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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32
furtiveness
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| 偷偷摸摸，鬼鬼祟祟 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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34
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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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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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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46
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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47
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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48
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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49
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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50
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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51
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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sycophants
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| n.谄媚者，拍马屁者( sycophant的名词复数 ) | |
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53
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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54
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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55
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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56
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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58
pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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59
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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60
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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61
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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62
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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63
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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64
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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66
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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67
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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68
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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69
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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70
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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71
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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72
bleated
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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73
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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perceptive
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| adj.知觉的，有洞察力的，感知的 | |
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75
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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76
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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78
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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79
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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80
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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81
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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82
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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83
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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84
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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85
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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86
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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87
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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88
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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89
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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90
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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91
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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92
plagiarist
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| n.剽窃者，文抄公 | |
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93
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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94
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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95
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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96
dub
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| vt.（以某种称号）授予，给...起绰号，复制 | |
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97
scurvily
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| 下流地，粗鄙地，无礼地 | |
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98
lampooned
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| v.冷嘲热讽，奚落( lampoon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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100
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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101
immolation
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| n.牺牲品 | |
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102
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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103
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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104
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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105
modish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的 | |
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106
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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107
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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108
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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109
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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110
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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112
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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113
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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114
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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115
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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116
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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117
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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118
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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119
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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120
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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121
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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122
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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123
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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124
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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125
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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126
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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127
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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128
braced
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|
| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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129
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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130
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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131
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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132
condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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133
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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134
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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135
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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136
deludes
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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137
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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138
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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139
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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140
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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141
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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142
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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143
smirks
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| n.傻笑，得意的笑( smirk的名词复数 )v.傻笑( smirk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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144
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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145
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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146
espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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147
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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148
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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149
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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150
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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151
vindicating
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的现在分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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152
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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153
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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154
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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155
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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156
inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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158
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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159
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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160
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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161
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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162
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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163
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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164
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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165
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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166
appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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167
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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168
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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169
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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170
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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171
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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172
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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173
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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174
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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175
cozen
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| v.欺骗，哄骗 | |
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176
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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178
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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179
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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181
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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182
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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183
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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184
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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185
profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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186
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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188
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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189
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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190
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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191
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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192
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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193
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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194
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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195
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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196
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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197
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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198
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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199
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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200
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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201
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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202
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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203
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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204
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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205
lewdness
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| n. 淫荡, 邪恶 | |
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206
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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207
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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208
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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209
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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210
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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211
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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212
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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213
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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214
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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215
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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216
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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217
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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218
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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