"It isn't quite cool enough," said Wrinkles.
"Well, I guess I know the proper temperature for claret."
"Well, I guess you don't. If it was buttermilk, now, you would know, but you can't tell anything about claret."
Florinda ultimately decided1 the question. "It isn't quite cool enough," she said, laying her hand on the bottle. "Put it on the window ledge2, Grief."
"Hum! Splutter, I thought you knew more than——"
"Oh, shut up!" interposed the busy Pennoyer from a remote corner. "Who is going after the potato salad? That's what I want to know. Who is going?"
"Wrinkles," said Grief.
"Grief," said Wrinkles.
"There," said Pennoyer, coming forward and scanning a late work with an eye of satisfaction. "There's the three glasses and the little tumbler; and then, Grief, you will have to drink out of a mug."
"I'll be double-dyed black if I will!" cried Grief. "I wouldn't drink claret out of a mug to save my soul from being pinched!"
"You duffer, you talk like a bloomin' British chump on whom the sun never sets! What do you want?"
"Well, there's enough without that—what's the matter with you? Three glasses and the little tumbler."
"Yes, but if Billie Hawker comes——"
"Well, let him drink out of the mug, then. He——"
"No, he won't," said Florinda suddenly. "I'll take the mug myself."
"All right, Splutter," rejoined Grief meekly3. "I'll keep the mug. But, still, I don't see why Billie Hawker——"
"I shall take the mug," reiterated4 Florinda firmly.
"But I don't see why——"
"Let her alone, Grief," said Wrinkles. "She has decided that it is heroic. You can't move her now."
"Well, who is going for the potato salad?" cried Pennoyer again. "That's what I want to know."
"Wrinkles," said Grief.
"Grief," said Wrinkles.
"Do you know," remarked Florinda, raising her head from where she had been toiling5 over the spaghetti, "I don't care so much for Billie Hawker as I did once?" Her sleeves were rolled above the elbows of her wonderful arms, and she turned from the stove and poised6 a fork as if she had been smitten7 at her task with this inspiration.
There was a short silence, and then Wrinkles said politely, "No."
"No," continued Florinda, "I really don't believe I do." She suddenly started. "Listen! Isn't that him coming now?"
"I thought that might be him," she said, turning to the spaghetti again.
"I hope the old Indian comes," said Pennoyer, "but I don't believe he will. Seems to me he must be going to see——"
"Who?" asked Florinda.
"Well, you know, Hollanden and he usually dine together when they are both in town."
Florinda looked at Pennoyer. "I know, Penny. You must have thought I was remarkably9 clever not to understand all your blundering. But I don't care so much. Really I don't."
"Really I don't."
"Of course not."
"Listen!" exclaimed Grief, who was near the door. "There he comes now." Somebody approached, whistling an air from "Traviata," which rang loud and clear, and low and muffled11, as the whistler wound among the intricate hallways. This air was as much a part of Hawker as his coat. The spaghetti had arrived at a critical stage. Florinda gave it her complete attention.
When Hawker opened the door he ceased whistling and said gruffly, "Hello!"
"Just the man!" said Grief. "Go after the potato salad, will you, Billie? There's a good boy! Wrinkles has refused."
"He can't carry the salad with those gloves," interrupted Florinda, raising her eyes from her work and contemplating12 them with displeasure.
"Hang the gloves!" cried Hawker, dragging them from his hands and hurling13 them at the divan14. "What's the matter with you, Splutter?"
Pennoyer said, "My, what a temper you are in, Billie!"
"I am," replied Hawker. "I feel like an Apache. Where do you get this accursed potato salad?"
"In Second Avenue. You know where. At the old place."
"No, I don't!" snapped Hawker.
"Why——"
"Here," said Florinda, "I'll go." She had already rolled down her sleeves and was arraying herself in her hat and jacket.
"We can both go, Billie, if you are so bent," replied the girl in a conciliatory voice.
When these two had departed, Wrinkles said: "Lordie! What's wrong with Billie?"
"He's been discussing art with some pot-boiler," said Grief, speaking as if this was the final condition of human misery17.
"No, sir," said Pennoyer. "It's something connected with the now celebrated18 violets."
Out in the corridor Florinda said, "What—what makes you so ugly, Billie?"
"Why, I am not ugly, am I?"
"Yes, you are—ugly as anything."
Probably he saw a grievance19 in her eyes, for he said, "Well, I don't want to be ugly." His tone seemed tender. The halls were intensely dark, and the girl placed her hand on his arm. As they rounded a turn in the stairs a straying lock of her hair brushed against his temple. "Oh!" said Florinda, in a low voice.
"We'll get some more claret," observed Hawker musingly20. "And some cognac for the coffee. And some cigarettes. Do you think of anything more, Splutter?"
As they came from the shop of the illustrious purveyors of potato salad in Second Avenue, Florinda cried anxiously, "Here, Billie, you let me carry that!"
"What infernal nonsense!" said Hawker, flushing. "Certainly not!"
"Well," protested Florinda, "it might soil your gloves somehow."
"In heaven's name, what if it does? Say, young woman, do you think I am one of these cholly boys?"
"No, Billie; but then, you know——"
"Well, if you don't take me for some kind of a Willie, give us peace on this blasted glove business!"
"I didn't mean——"
"Well, you've been intimating that I've got the only pair of gray gloves in the universe, but you are wrong. There are several pairs, and these need not be preserved as unique in history."
"They're not gray. They're——"
"They are gray! I suppose your distinguished21 ancestors in Ireland did not educate their families in the matter of gloves, and so you are not expected to——"
"Billie!"
"You are not expected to believe that people wear gloves only in cold weather, and then you expect to see mittens22."
On the stairs, in the darkness, he suddenly exclaimed, "Here, look out, or you'll fall!" He reached for her arm, but she evaded23 him. Later he said again: "Look out, girl! What makes you stumble around so? Here, give me the bottle of wine. I can carry it all right. There—now can you manage?"
点击收听单词发音
1 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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2 ledge | |
n.壁架,架状突出物;岩架,岩礁 | |
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3 meekly | |
adv.温顺地,逆来顺受地 | |
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4 reiterated | |
反复地说,重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5 toiling | |
长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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6 poised | |
a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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7 smitten | |
猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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8 trample | |
vt.踩,践踏;无视,伤害,侵犯 | |
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9 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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10 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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12 contemplating | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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13 hurling | |
n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的现在分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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14 divan | |
n.长沙发;(波斯或其他东方诗人的)诗集 | |
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15 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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16 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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17 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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18 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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19 grievance | |
n.怨愤,气恼,委屈 | |
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20 musingly | |
adv.沉思地,冥想地 | |
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21 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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22 mittens | |
不分指手套 | |
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23 evaded | |
逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 ); 避开; 回避; 想不出 | |
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