She pointed1 at one of the large white-curtained windows of the restaurant, through which was visible a round column covered with advertisements of theatres, music-halls, and concert-halls, printed in many colours and announcing superlative delights. Names famous wherever pleasure is understood gave to their variegated2 posters a pleasant air of distinguished3 familiarity—names of theatres such as “Variétés,” “Vaudeville,” “Châtelet,” “Théâtre Français,” “Folies-Bergère,” and names of persons such as “Sarah Bernhardt,” “Huegenet,” “Le Bargy,” “Litvinne,” “Lavallière.” But the name in the largest type—dark crimson4 letters on rose paper—the name dominating all the rest, was the name of Musa. The ingenuous5 stranger to Paris was compelled to think that as an artist Musa was far more important than anybody else. Along the length of all the principal boulevards, and in many of the lesser6 streets, the ingenuous stranger encountered, at regular distances of a couple of hundred yards or so, one of these columns planted on the kerb; and all the scores of them bore exactly the same legend; they all spoke7 of nothing but blissful diversions, and they all put Musa ahead of anybody else in the world of the stage and the platform. Sarah Bernhardt herself, dark blue upon pale, was a trifle compared to Musa on the columns. And it had been so for days. Other posters were changed daily—changed by mysterious hands before even bread-girls were afoot with their yards of bread—but the space given to Musa repeated always the same tidings, namely that Musa ("the great violinist") was to give an orchestral concert at the Salle Xavier, assisted by the Xavier orchestra, on Thursday, September 24, at 9 P.M. Particulars of the programme followed.
Paris was being familiarised with Musa. His four letters looked down upon the fever of the thoroughfares; they were perused8 by tens of thousands of sitters in cafés and in front of cafés; they caught the eye of men and women fleeing from the wrath9 to come in taxicabs; they competed successfully with newspaper placards; and on that Thursday—for the Thursday in question had already run more than half its course—they had so entered into the sub-conscious brain of Paris that no habitué of the streets, whatever his ignorant indifference11 to the art of music, could have failed to reply with knowledge, on hearing Musa mentioned, “Oh, yes!” implying that he was fully10 acquainted with the existence of the said Musa.
Tommy was right: there did seem to be a certain unreality about the thing, yet it was utterly12 real.
All the women turned to glance at the name through the window, and some of them murmured sympathetic and interested exclamations13 and bright hopes. There were five women: Miss Thompkins, Miss Nickall, Madame Piriac, Miss Ingate and Audrey. And there was one man—Mr. Gilman. And the six were seated at a round table in the historic Parisian restaurant. Mr. Gilman had the air triumphant14, and he was entitled to it. The supreme15 moment of his triumph had come. Having given a luncheon16 to these ladies, he had just asked, with due high negligence17, for the bill. If there was one matter in which Mr. Gilman was a truly great expert, it was the matter of giving a meal in a restaurant. He knew how to dress for such an affair—with strict conventionality but a touch of devil-may-care youthfulness in the necktie. He knew how to choose the restaurant; he had about half a dozen in his répertoire—all of the first order and for the most part combining the exclusive with the amusing—entirely different in kind from the pandemonium18 where Audrey had eaten on the night of her first arrival in Paris; he knew how to get the best out of head-waiters and waiters, who in these restaurants were not head-waiters and waiters but worldly priests and acolytes19; his profound knowledge of cookery sprang from a genuine interest in his stomach, and he could compose a menu in a fashion to command the respect of head-waiters and to excite the envy of musicians composing a sonata20; he had the wit to look in early and see to the flowers; above all he was aware what women liked in the way of wine, and since this was never what he liked in the way of wine, he would always command a half-bottle of the extra dry for himself, but would have it manipulated with such discretion21 that not a guest could notice it. He paid lavishly22 and willingly, convinced by hard experience that the best is inestimable, but he felt too that the best was really quite cheap, for he knew that there were imperfectly educated people in the world who thought nothing of paying the price of a good meal for a mere23 engraving24 or a bit of china. Withal, he never expected his guests truly to appreciate the marvels25 he offered them. They could not, or very rarely. Their twittering ecstatic praise, which was without understanding, sufficed for him, though sometimes he would give gentle diffident instruction. This trait in him was very attractive, proving the genuineness of his modesty27.
The luncheon was partly to celebrate the return of various persons to Paris, but chiefly in honour of Musa’s concert. Musa could not be present, for distinguished public performers do not show themselves on the day of an appearance. Mr. Gilman had learnt this from Madame Piriac, whom he had consulted as to the list of guests. It is to be said that he bore the absence of Musa from his table with stoicism. For the rest, Madame Piriac knew that he wanted no other men, and she had suggested none. She had assumed that he desired Audrey, and had pointed out that Audrey could not well be invited without Miss Ingate, who, sick of her old Moze, had rejoined Audrey in the splendour of the Hôtel du Danube. Mr. Gilman had somehow mentioned Miss Thompkins, whereupon Madame Piriac had declared that Miss Thompkins involved Miss Nickall, who after a complete recovery from the broken arm had returned for a while to her studio. And then Mr. Gilman had closed the list, saying that six was enough, and exactly the right number.
“At what o’clock are you going for the drive?” asked Madame Piriac in her improved, precise English. She looked equally at her self-styled uncle and at Audrey.
“I ordered the car for three o’clock,” answered Mr. Gilman. “It is not yet quite three.”
The table with its litter of ash-trays, empty cups, empty small glasses, and ravaged28 sweets, and the half-deserted restaurant, and the polite expectant weariness of the priests and acolytes, all showed that the hour was in fact not quite three—an hour at which such interiors have invariably the aspect of roses overblown and about to tumble to pieces.
And immediately upon the reference to the drive everybody at the table displayed a little constraint30, avoiding the gaze of everybody else, thus demonstrating that the imminent31 drive was a delicate, without being a disagreeable, topic. Which requires explanation.
Mr. Gilman had not been seen by any of his guests during the summer. He had landed them at Boulogne from the Ariadne—sound but for one casualty. That casualty was Jane Foley, suffering from pneumonia32, which had presumably developed during the evening of exposure spent with Aguilar in the leaking punt and in rain showers. Madame Piriac and Audrey took her to Wimereux and there nursed her through a long and sometimes dangerous illness. Jane possessed33 no constitution, but she had obstinacy34, which saved her. In her convalescence35, part of which she spent alone with Audrey (Madame Piriac having to pay visits to Monsieur Piriac), she had proceeded with the writing of a book, and she had also received in conclave36 the rarely seen Rosamund, who like herself was still a fugitive37 from British justice. These two had been elaborating a new plan of campaign, which was to include an incursion by themselves into England, and which had in part been confided38 by Jane to Audrey, who, having other notions in her head, had been somewhat troubled thereby39. Audrey’s conscience had occasionally told her to throw herself heartily40 into the campaign, but her individualistic instincts had in the end kept her safely on a fence between the campaign and something else. The something else was connected with Mr. Gilman.
Mr. Gilman had written to her regularly; he had sent dazzling subscriptions41 to the Suffragette union; and Audrey had replied regularly. His letters were very simple, very modest, and quite touching42. They were dated from various coastal43 places. However, he never came near Wimereux, though it was a coastal place. Audrey had excusably deemed this odd; but Madame Piriac having once said with marked casualness, “I hinted to him that he might with advantage stay away,” Audrey had concealed44 her thoughts on the point. And one of her thoughts was that Madame Piriac was keeping them apart so as to try them, so as to test their mutual45 feelings. The policy, if it was a policy, was very like Madame Piriac; it had the effect of investing Mr. Gilman in Audrey’s mind with a peculiar46 romantic and wistful charm, as of a sighing and obedient victim. Then Jane Foley and Rosamund had gone off somewhere, and Madame Piriac and Audrey had returned to Paris, and had found that practically all Paris had returned to Paris too. And on the first meeting with Mr. Gilman it had been at once established that his feelings and those of Audrey had surmounted47 the Piriac test. Within forty-eight hours all persons interested had mysteriously assumed that Mr. Gilman and Audrey were coupled together by fate and that a delicious crisis was about to supervene in their earthly progress. And they had become objects of exquisite48 solicitude49. They had also become perfect. A circle of friends and acquaintances waited in excited silence for a palpitating event, as a populace waits for the booming gunfire which is to inaugurate a national rejoicing. And when the news exuded50 that he was taking her for a drive to Meudon, which she had never seen, alone, all decided51 beyond any doubt that he would do it during the drive.
Audrey, as the phrase is, “felt her position keenly,” but not unpleasantly, nor with understanding. Not a word had passed of late between herself and Mr. Gilman that any acquaintance might not have listened to. Indeed, Mr. Gilman had become slightly more formal. She liked him for that, as she liked him for a large number of qualities. She did not know whether she loved him. And strange to say, the question did not passionately53 interest her. The only really interesting questions were: Would he propose to her? And would she accept him? She had no logical ground for assuming that he would propose to her. None of her friends had informed her of the general expectation that he would propose to her. Yet she knew that everybody expected him to propose to her quite soon—indeed within the next couple of hours. And she felt that everybody was right. The universe was full of mysteries for Audrey. As regards her answer to any proposal, she foresaw—another mystery—that it would not depend upon self-examination or upon reason, or upon anything that could be defined. It would depend upon an instinct over which her mind—nay, even her heart—had no control. She was quite certainly aware that this instinct would instruct her brain to instruct her lips to say “Yes.” The idea of saying “No” simply could not be conceived. All the forces in the universe would combine to prevent her from saying “No.”
The one thing that might have countered that enigmatic and powerful instinct was a consideration based upon the difference between her age and that of Mr. Gilman. It is true that she did not know what the difference was, because she did not know Mr. Gilman’s age. And she could not ask him. No! Such is the structure of society that she could not say to Mr. Gilman, “By the way, Mr. Gilman, how old are you?” She could properly ascertain54 his tastes about all manner of fundamental points, such as the shape of chair-legs, the correct hour for dining, or the comparative merits of diamonds and emeralds; but this trifle of information about his age could not be asked for. And he did not make her a present of it. She might have questioned Madame Piriac, but she could not persuade herself to question Madame Piriac either. However, what did it matter? Even if she learnt his age to a day, he would still be precisely55 the same Mr. Gilman. And let him be as old or as young as he might, she was still his equal in age. She was far more than six months older than she had been six months ago.
The influence of Madame Piriac through the summer had indirectly56 matured her. For above all Madame Piriac had imperceptibly taught her the everlasting57 joy and duty of exciting the sympathy, admiration58 and gratitude59 of the other sex. Hence Audrey had aged29 at a miraculous60 rate because in order to please Mr. Gilman she wished—possibly without knowing it—to undo61 the disparity between herself and him. This may be strange, but it is assuredly more true than strange. To the same ends she had concealed her own age. Nobody except Miss Ingate knew how old she was. She only made it clear, when doubts seemed to exist, that she had passed her majority long before. Further, her wealth, magnified by legend, assisted her age. Not that she was so impressed by her wealth as she had been. She had met American women in Paris compared to whom she was at destitution’s door. She knew one woman who had kept a 2,000-ton yacht lying all summer in the outer harbour at Boulogne, and had used it during that period for exactly eleven hours.
Few of these people had an establishment. They would rent floors in hotels, or châteaux in Touraine, or yachts, but they had no home, and yet they seemed very content and beyond doubt they were very free. And so Audrey did not trouble about having a home. She had Moze, which was more than many of her acquaintances had. She would not use it, but she had it. And she was content in the knowledge of the power to create a home when she felt inclined to create one. Not that it would not have been absurd to set about creating a home with Mr. Gilman hanging over her like a destiny. It would have been rude to him to do so; it would have been to transgress62 against the inter-sexual code as promulgated63 by Madame Piriac.... She wondered what sort of a place Meudon was, and whether he would propose to her while they were looking at the view together.... She trembled with the sense of adventure, which had little to do with happiness or unhappiness.... But would he propose to her? Not improbably the whole conception of the situation was false and she was being ridiculous!
Still the nice constraint persisted as the women began to put on their gloves, while Mr. Gilman had a word with the chief priest. And Audrey had the illusion of being a dedicated64 victim. As she self-consciously and yet proudly handled her gloves she could not help but notice the simple gold wedding-ring on a certain finger. She had never removed it. She had never formally renounced65 her claim to the status of a widow. That she was not a widow, that she had been guilty of a fraud on a gullible66 public, was somehow generally known; but the facts were not referred to, save perhaps in rare hints by Tommy, and she had continued to be known as Mrs. Moncreiff. Ignominious67 close to a daring enterprise! And in the circumstances nothing was more out of place than the ring, bought in cold, wilful68, calculating naughtiness at Colchester.
Just when Miss Ingate was beginning to discuss her own plans for the afternoon, Mr. Price entered the restaurant, and as he did so Miss Thompkins, saying something about the small type on the poster outside, went to the window to examine it. Mr. Price, disguised as a discreet69 dandy-about-town, bore a parcel of music. He removed a most glossy70 hat; he bowed to the whole company of ladies, who responded with smiles in which was acknowledge that he was a dandy in addition to being a secretary; and lastly with deference71 he handed the parcel of music to Mr. Gilman.
“So you did get it! What did I tell you?” said Mr. Gilman with negligent72 condescension73. “A minute later, and we should have been gone.... Has Mr. Price got this right?” he asked Audrey, putting the music respectfully in front of her.
It included the reduced score of the Beethoven violin concerto74, and other items to be performed that night at the Salle Xavier.
“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Price!” said Audrey. The music was so fresh and glossy and luscious75 to the eye that it was like a gift of fruit.
“That’ll do, then, Price,” said Mr. Gilman. “Don’t forget about those things for to-night, will you?”
“No, sir. I have a note of all of them.”
Mr. Price bowed and turned away, assuming his perfect hat. As he approached the door Tommy intercepted76 him; and said something to him in a low voice, to which he uncomfortably mumbled77 a reply. As they had admittedly been friends in Mr. Price’s artistic78 days, exception could not be taken to this colloquy79. Nevertheless Audrey, being as suspicious as a real widow, regarded it ill, thinking all manner of things. And when Tommy, humming, came back to her seat on Mr. Gilman’s left hand, Audrey thought: “And why, after all, should she be on his left hand? It is of course proper that I should be on his right, but why should Tommy be on his left? Why not Madame Piriac or Miss Ingate?”
“And what am I going to do this afternoon?” demanded Miss Ingate, lengthening80 the space between her nose and her upper lip, and turning down the corners of her lower lip.
“You have to try that new dress on, Winnie,” said Audrey rather reprovingly.
“Alone? Me go alone there? I wouldn’t do it. It’s not respectable the way they look at you and add you up and question you in those trying-on rooms, when they’ve got you.”
“Well, take Elise with you.”
“Me take Elise? I won’t do it, not unless I could keep her mouth full of pins all the time. Whenever we’re alone, and her mouth isn’t full of pins, she always talks to me as if I was an actress. And I’m not.”
“Well, then,” said Miss Nickall kindly81, “come with me and Tommy. We haven’t anything to do, and I’m taking Tommy to see Jane Foley. Jane would love to see you.”
“She might,” replied Miss Ingate. “Oh! She might. But I think I’ll walk across to the hotel and just go to bed and sleep it off.”
There was one other customer left in the restaurant, a solitary84 fair, fat man, and as Mr. Gilman’s party was leaving, Audrey last, this solitary fair, fat man caught her eye, bowed, and rose. It was Mr. Cowl, secretary of the National Reformation Society. He greeted her with the assurance of an old and valued friend, and he called her neither Miss nor Mrs.; he called her nothing at all. Audrey accepted his lead.
“Going strong!” said Mr. Cowl. “More flourishing than ever—in spite of our bad luck.” He lifted his sandy-coloured eyebrows86. “Of course I’m here on Society business. In fact, I often have to come to Paris on Society business.” His glance deprecated the appearance of the table over which his rounded form was protruding87.
“Well, I’m glad to have seen you again,” said Audrey, holding out her hand.
“I wonder,” said Mr. Cowl, drawing some tickets from his pocket. “I wonder whether you—and your friends—would care to go to a concert to-night at the Salle Xavier. The concierge88 at my hotel is giving tickets away, and I took some—rather to oblige him than anything else. For one never knows when a concierge may not be useful. I don’t suppose it will be anything great, but it will pass the time, and—er—strangers in Paris——”
“Thank you, Mr. Cowl, but I’m not a stranger in Paris. I live here.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Cowl. “Excuse me. Then you won’t take them? Pity! I hate to see anything wasted.”
“Remember me respectfully to Miss Ingate, please,” finished Mr. Cowl. “She didn’t see me as she passed.”
He returned the tickets to his pocket.
Outside, Madame Piriac, standing26 by her automobile90, which had rolled up with the silence of an hallucination, took leave of Audrey.
“Eh bien! Au revoir!“ said she shortly, with a peculiar challenging half-smile, which seemed to be saying, “Are you going to be worthy91 of my education? Let us hope so.”
And Miss Nickall, with her grey hair growing fluffier92 under a somewhat rakish hat, said with a smile of sheer intense watchful93 benevolence94:
“Well, good-bye!”
While Nick was ecstatically thanking Mr. Gilman for his hospitality, Tommy called Audrey aside. Madame Piriac’s car had vanished.
“Have you heard about the rehearsal95 this morning?” she asked, in a confidential96 tone, anxious and yet quizzical.
“No! What about it?” Audrey demanded. Various apprehensions97 were competing for attention in her brain. The episode of Mr. Cowl had agitated98 her considerably99. And now she was standing right against the column bearing Musa’s name in those large letters, and other columns up and down the gay, busy street echoed clear the name. And how unreal it was!... Tickets being given away in half-dozens!... She ought to have been profoundly disturbed by such a revelation, and she was. But here was the drive with Mr. Gilman insisting on a monopoly of all her faculties100. And on the top of everything—Tommy with her strange gaze and tone! Tommy carefully hesitated before replying.
“He lost his temper and left it in the middle—orchestra and conductor and Xavier and all! And he swore he wouldn’t play to-night.”
“Nonsense!”
“Yes, he did.”
“Who told you?”
“A man I know in the orchestra.”
“Why didn’t you tell us at once—when you came?”
“Well, I didn’t want to spoil the luncheon. But of course I ought to have done. You, at any rate, seeing your interest in the concert! I’m sorry.”
“My interest in the concert?” Audrey objected.
“Well, my girl,” said Tommy, half cajolingly and half threateningly, “you aren’t going to stand there and tell me to my face that you haven’t put up that concert for him?”
“Put up the concert! Put up the——” Audrey knew she was blushing.
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1
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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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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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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luncheon
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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sonata
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| n.奏鸣曲 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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mere
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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coastal
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| adj.海岸的，沿海的，沿岸的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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promulgated
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| v.宣扬（某事物）( promulgate的过去式和过去分词 )；传播；公布；颁布（法令、新法律等） | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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gullible
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| adj.易受骗的；轻信的 | |
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ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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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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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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concerto
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| n.协奏曲 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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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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fluffier
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| adj.似绒毛的( fluffy的比较级 )；有绒毛的；蓬松的；轻软状的 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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100
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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102
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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