But on the morrow, Friday, he might venture to go. But, then, would tomorrow ever come? It seemed impossible. How were the intervening hours to pass? The world, however, was not so devoid5 of resources as himself, and had already appropriated his whole day. And, first, Monsignore Catesby came to breakfast with him, talking of every thing that was agreeable or interesting, but in reality bent6 on securing his presence at the impending7 ecclesiastical ceremony of high import, where his guardian8 was to officiate, and where the foundation was to be laid of the reconciliation9 of all churches in the bosom10 of the true one. Then, in the afternoon, Lothair had been long engaged to a match of pigeon-shooting, in which pastime Bertram excelled. It seemed there was to be a most exciting sweepstakes today, in which the flower of England were to compete; Lothair among them, and for the first time.
This great exploit of arms was to be accomplished11 at the Castle in the Air, a fantastic villa12 near the banks of the Thames, belonging to the Duke of Brecon. His grace had been offended by the conduct or the comments of the outer world, which in his pastime had thwarted13 or displeased14 him in the free life of Battersea. The Duke of Brecon was a gentleman easily offended, but not one of those who ever confined their sense of injury to mere15 words. He prided himself on “putting down” any individual or body of men who chose to come into collision with him. And so in the present instance he formed a club of pigeon-shooters, and lent them his villa for their rendezvous16 and enjoyment17. The society was exquisite18, exclusive, and greatly sought after. And the fine ladies, tempted19, of course, by the beauty of the scene, honored and inspired the competing confederates by their presence.
The Castle in the Air was a colossal20 thatched cottage, built by a favorite of, King George IV. It was full of mandarins and pagodas21 and green dragons, and papered with birds of many colors and with vast tails. The gardens were pretty, and the grounds park-like, with some noble cedars22 and some huge walnut-trees.
The Duke of Brecon was rather below the middle size, but he had a singularly athletic23 frame not devoid of symmetry. His head was well placed on his broad shoulders, and his mien24 was commanding. He was narrow-minded and prejudiced, but acute, and endowed with an unbending will. He was an eminent25 sportsman, and brave even to brutality26. His boast was that he had succeeded in every thing he had attempted, and he would not admit the possibility of future failure. Though still a very young man, he had won the Derby, training his own horse; and he successfully managed a fine stud in defiance27 of the ring, whom it was one of the secret objects of his life to extirpate28. Though his manner to men was peremptory29, cold, and hard, he might be described as popular, for there existed a superstitious30 belief in his judgment31, and it was known that in some instances, when he had been consulted, he had given more than advice. It could not be said that he was beloved, but he was feared and highly considered. Parasites32 were necessary to him, though he despised them.
The Duke of Brecon was an avowed34 admirer, of Lady Corisande, and was intimate with her family. The duchess liked him much, and was often seen at ball or assembly on his arm. He had such excellent principles, she said; was so straight-forward, so true and firm. It was whispered that even Lady Corisande had remarked that the Duke of Brecon was the only young man of the time who had “character.” The truth is, the duke, though absolute and hard to men, could be soft and deferential35 to women, and such an exception to a general disposition36 has a charm. It was said, also, that he had, when requisite37, a bewitching smile.
If there were any thing or any person in the world that St. Aldegonde hated more than another, it was the Duke of Brecon. Why St. Aldegonde hated him was not very clear, for they had never crossed each other, nor were the reasons for his detestation, which he occasionally gave, entirely38 satisfactory: sometimes it was because the duke drove piebalds; sometimes because he had a large sum in the funds, which St. Aldegonde thought disgraceful for a duke; sometimes because he wore a particular hat, though, with respect to this last allegation, it does not follow that St. Aldegonde was justified40 in his criticism, for in all these matters St. Aldegonde was himself very deficient41, and had once strolled up St. James’s Street with his dishevelled looks crowned with a wide-awake. Whatever might be the cause, St. Aldegonde generally wound up—“I tell you what, Bertha, if Corisande marries that follow, I have made up my mind to go to the Indian Ocean. It is a country I never have seen, and Pinto tells me you cannot do it well under five years.”
“I hope you will take me, Grenville, with you,” said Lady St. Aldegonde, “because it is highly probable Corisande will marry the duke; mamma, you know, likes him so much.”
“Why cannot Corisande marry Carisbrooke?” said St. Aldegonde, pouting42; “he is a really good fellow, much better-looking, and so far as land is concerned, which after all is the only thing, has as large an estate as the duke.”
“Well, these things depend a little upon taste,” said Lady St. Aldegonde.
“No, no,” said St. Aldegonde; “Corisande must marry Carisbrooke. Your father would not like my going to the Indian Archipelago and not returning for five years, perhaps never returning. Why should Corisande break up our society?—why are people so selfish? I never could go to Brentham again if the Duke of Brecon is always to be there, giving his opinion, and being what your mother calls ‘straightforward43’—I hate a straightforward fellow. As Pinto says, if every man were straightforward in his opinions, there would be no conversation. The fun of talk is to find out what a man really thinks, then contrast it with the enormous lies he has been telling all dinner, and, perhaps, all his life.”
It was a favorable day for the Castle in the Air; enough, but not too much sun, and a gentle breeze. Some pretty feet, not alone, were sauntering in the gardens, some pretty lips lingered in the rooms sipping44 tea; but the mass of the fair visitors, marvellously attired45, were assembled at the scene of action, seated on chairs and in groups, which assumed something of the form of an amphitheatre. There were many gentlemen in attendance on them, or independent spectators of the sport. The field was large, not less than forty competitors, and comprising many of the best shots in England. The struggle therefore, was long and ably maintained; but, as the end approached, it was evident that the contest would be between Bertram, Lothair, and the Duke of Brecon.
Lady St. Aldegonde and Lady Montairy were there and their unmarried sister. The married sisters were highly excited in favor of their brother, but Lady Corisande said nothing. At last Bertram missed a bird, or rather his bird, which he had hit, escaped, and fell beyond the enclosure. Lothair was more successful, and it seemed that it might be a tie between him and the duke. His grace, when called, advanced with confident composure, and apparently46 killed both his birds, when, at this moment, a dog rushed forward and chased one of the mortally-struck pigeons. The blue-rock, which was content to die by the hand of a duke, would not deign47 to be worried by a dog, and it frantically48 moved its expiring wings, scaled the paling, and died. So Lothair won the prize.
“Well,” said Lady Montairy to Lothair, “as Bertram was not to win, I am glad it was you.”
“And you will not congratulate me?” said Lothair to Lady Corisande.
She rather shook her head. “A tournament of doves,” she said. “I would rather see you all in the lists of Ashby.”
Lothair had to dine this day with one of the vanquished49. This was Mr. Brancepeth, celebrated50 for his dinners, still more for his guests. Mr. Brancepeth was a grave young man. It was supposed that he was always meditating51 over the arrangement of his menus, or the skilful52 means by which he could assemble together the right persons to partake of them. Mr. Brancepeth had attained53 the highest celebrity54 in his peculiar55 career. To dine with Mr. Brancepeth was a social incident that was mentioned. Royalty56 had consecrated57 his banquets, and a youth of note was scarcely a graduate of society who had not been his guest. There was one person, however, who, in this respect, had not taken his degree, and, as always happens under such circumstances, he was the individual on whom Mr. Brancepeth was most desirous to confer it; and this was St. Aldegonde. In vain Mr. Brancepeth had approached him with vast cards of invitation to hecatombs, and with insinuating58 little notes to dinners sans fa on; proposals which the presence of princes might almost construe59 into a command, or the presence of some one even more attractive than princes must invest with irresistible60 charm. It was all in vain. “Not that I dislike Brancepeth,” said St. Aldegonde; “I rather like him: I like a man who can do only one thing, but does that well. But then I hate dinners.”
But the determined61 and the persevering62 need never despair of gaining their object in this world. And this very day, riding home from the Castle in the Air, Mr. Brancepeth overtook St. Aldegonde, who was lounging about on a rough Scandinavian cob, as dishevelled as himself, listless and groomless. After riding together for twenty minutes, St. Aldegonde informed Mr. Brancepeth, as was his general custom with his companions, that he was bored to very extinction63, and that he did not know what he should do with himself for the rest of the day. “If I could only get Pinto to go with me, I think I would run down to the Star and Garter, or perhaps to Hampton Court.”
“You will not be able to get Pinto today,” said Mr. Brancepeth, “for he dines with me.”
“What an unlucky fellow I am!” exclaimed St. Aldegonde, entirely to himself. “I had made up my mind to dine with Pinto today.”
“And why should you not? Why not meet Pinto at my house?”
“Well, that is not my way,” said St. Aldegonde, but not in a decided64 tone. “You know I do not like strangers, and crowds of wine-glasses, and what is called all the delicacies65 of the season.”
“You will meet no one that you do not know and like. It is a little dinner I made for—” and he mentioned Lothair.
“I like Lothair,” said St. Aldegonde, dreamily. “He is a nice boy.”
“Well, you will have him and Pinto to yourself.”
The large fish languidly rose and swallowed the bait, and the exulting66 Mr. Brancepeth cantered off to Hill Street to give the necessary instructions.
Mr. Pinto was one of the marvels67 of English society; the most sought after of all its members, though no one could tell you exactly why. He was a little oily Portuguese68, middle-aged69, corpulent, and somewhat bald, with dark eyes of sympathy, not unmixed with humor. No one knew who he was, and in a country the most scrutinizing70 as to personal details, no one inquired or cared to know. A quarter of a century ago an English noble had caught him in his travels, and brought him young to England, where he had always remained. From the favorite of an individual, he had become the oracle71 of a circle, and then the idol72 of society. All this time his manner remained unchanged. He was never at any time either humble73 or pretentious74. Instead of being a parasite33, everybody flattered him; and instead of being a hanger-on of society, society hung on Pinto.
It must have been the combination of many pleasing qualities, rather than the possession of any commanding one, that created his influence. He certainly was not a wit yet he was always gay, and always said things that made other people merry. His conversation was sparkling, interesting, and fluent, yet it was observed he never gave an opinion on any subject and never told an anecdote75. Indeed, he would sometimes remark, when a man fell into his anecdotage, it was a sign for him to retire from the world. And yet Pinto rarely opened his mouth without everybody being stricken with mirth. He had the art of viewing common things in a fanciful light, and the rare gift of raillery which flattered the self-love of those whom it seemed sportively not to spare. Sometimes those who had passed a fascinating evening with Pinto would try to remember on the morrow what he had said, and could recall nothing. He was not an intellectual Croesus, but his pockets were full of six-pences.
One of the ingredients of his social spell was no doubt his manner, which was tranquil76 even when he was droll77. He never laughed except with his eyes, and delivered himself of his most eccentric fancies in an unctuous78 style. He had a rare gift of mimicry79, which he used with extreme reserve, and therefore was proportionately effective when displayed. Add to all this, a sweet voice, a soft hand, and a disposition both soft and sweet, like his own Azores. It was understood that Pinto was easy in his circumstances, though no one know where these circumstances were. His equipage was worthy80 of his position, and in his little house in May Fair he sometimes gave a dinner to a fine lady, who was as proud of the event as the Queen of Sheba of her visit to Solomon the Great.
When St. Aldegonde arrived in Hill Street, and slouched into the saloon with as uncouth81 and graceless a general mien as a handsome and naturally graceful39 man could contrive82 to present, his keen though listless glance at once revealed to him that he was as he described it at dinner to Hugo Bohun in a social jungle, in which there was a great herd83 of animals that he particularly disliked, namely, what he entitled “swells84.” The scowl85 on his distressed86 countenance87 at first intimated a retreat; but after a survey, courteous88 to his host, and speaking kindly89 to Lothair as he passed on, he made a rush to Mr. Pinto, and, cordially embracing him, said, “Mind we sit together.”
The dinner was not a failure, though an exception to the polished ceremony of the normal Brancepeth banquet. The host headed his table, with the Duke of Brecon on his right and Lothair on his left hand, and “swells” of calibre in their vicinity; but St. Aldegonde sat far away, next to Mr. Pinto, and Hugo Bohun on the other side of that gentleman. Hugo Bohun loved swells, but he loved St. Aldegonde more. The general conversation in the neighborhood of Mr. Brancepeth did not flag: they talked of the sport of the morning, and then, by association of ideas, of every other sport. And then from the sports of England they ranged to the sports of every other country. There were several there who had caught salmon90 in Norway and killed tigers in Bengal, and visited those countries only for that purpose. And then they talked of horses, and then they talked of women.
Lothair was rather silent; for in this society of ancients, the youngest of whom was perhaps not less than five-and-twenty, and some with nearly a lustre91 added to that mature period, he felt the awkward modesty92 of a freshman93. The Duke of Brecon talked much, but never at length. He decided every thing, at least to his own satisfaction; and if his opinion were challenged, remained unshaken, and did not conceal94 it.
All this time a different scene was enacting95 at the other end of the table. St. Aldegonde, with his back turned to his other neighbor, hung upon the accents of Mr. Pinto, and Hugo Bohun imitated St. Aldegonde. What Mr. Pinto said or was saying was quite inaudible, for he always spoke96 low, and in the present case he was invisible, like an ortolan smothered97 in vine-leaves; but every now and then St. Aldegonde broke into a frightful98 shout, and Hugo Bohun tittered immensely. Then St. Aldegonde, throwing himself back in his chair, and talking to himself or the ceiling, would exclaim, “Best thing I ever heard,” while Hugo nodded sympathy with a beaming smile.
The swells now and then paused in their conversation and glanced at the scene of disturbance99.
“They seem highly amused there,” said Mr. Brancepeth. “I wish they would pass it on.”
“I think St. Aldegonde,” said the Duke of Brecon, “is the least conventional man of my acquaintance.”
Notwithstanding this stern sneer100, a practiced general like Mr. Brancepeth felt he had won the day. All his guests would disperse101 and tell the world that they had dined with him and met St. Aldegonde, and tomorrow there would be a blazoned102 paragraph in the journals commemorating103 the event, and written as if by a herald104. What did a little disturb his hospitable105 mind was that St. Aldegonde literally106 tasted nothing. He did not care so much for his occasionally leaning on the table with both his elbows, but that he should pass by every dish was distressing107. So Mr. Brancepeth whispered to his own valet—a fine gentleman, who stood by his master’s chair and attended on no one else, except, when requisite, his master’s immediate108 neighbor—and desired him to suggest to St. Aldegonde whether the side-table might not provide, under the difficulties, some sustenance109. St. Aldegonde seemed quite gratified by the attention, and said he should like to have some cold meat. Now, that was the only thing the side-table, bounteous110 as was its disposition, could not provide. All the joints111 of the season were named in vain, and pies and preparations of many climes. But nothing would satisfy St. Aldegonde but cold meat.
“Well, now I shall begin my dinner,” he said to Pinto, when he was at length served. “What surprises me most in you is your English. There is not a man who speaks such good English as you do.”
“English is an expressive112 language,” said Mr. Pinto, “but not difficult to master. Its range is limited. It consists, as far as I can observe, of four words: ‘nice,’ ‘jolly,’ ‘charming,’ and ‘bore;’ and some grammarians add ‘fond.’”
When the guests rose and returned to the saloon, St. Aldegonde was in high spirits, and talked to every one, even to the Duke of Brecon, whom he considerately reminded of his defeat in the morning, adding that from what he had seen of his grace’s guns he had no opinion of them, and that he did not believe that breech-loaders suited pigeon-shooting.
Finally, when he bade farewell to his host, St. Aldegonde assured him that he “never in his life made so good a dinner, and that Pinto had never been so rich.”
When the party broke up, the majority of the guests went, sooner or later, to a ball that was given this evening by Lady St. Jerome. Others, who never went to balls, looked forward with refined satisfaction to a night of unbroken tobacco. St. Aldegonde went to play whist at the house of a lady who lived out of town. “I like the drive home,” he said; “the morning air is so refreshing114 when one has lost one’s money.”
A ball at St. Jerome House was a rare event, but one highly appreciated. It was a grand mansion115, with a real suite113 of state apartments, including a genuine ballroom116 in the Venetian style, and lighted with chandeliers of rock-crystal. Lady St. Jerome was a woman of taste and splendor117 and romance, who could do justice to the scene and occasion. Even Lord St. Jerome, quiet as he seemed, in these matters was popular with young men. It was known that Lord St. Jerome gave, at his ball suppers, the same champagne118 that he gave at his dinners, and that was of the highest class. In short, a patriot119. We talk with wondering execration120 of the great poisoners of past ages, the Borgias, the inventor of aqua tofana, and the amiable121 Marchioness de Brinvilliers; but Pinto was of opinion that there were more social poisoners about in the present day than in the darkest, and the most demoralized periods, and then none of them are punished; which is so strange, he would add, as they are all found out.
Lady St. Jerome received Lothair, as Pinto said, with extreme unction. She looked in his eyes, she retained his hand, she said that what she had heard had made her so happy. And then, when he was retiring, she beckoned122 him back and said she must have some tea, and, taking his arm, they walked away together. “I have so much to tell you,” she said, “and every thing is so interesting. I think we are on the eve of great events. The monsignore told me your heart was with us. It must be. They are your own thoughts, your own wishes. We are realizing your own ideal. I think next Sunday will be remembered as a great day in English history; the commencement of a movement that may save every thing. The monsignore, I know, has told you all.”
Not exactly; the Oxford123 visit had deranged124 a little the plans of the monsignore, but he had partially125 communicated the vast scheme. It seems there was a new society to be instituted for the restoration of Christendom. The change of name from Christendom to Europe had proved a failure and a disastrous126 one. “And what wonder?” said Lady St. Jerome. “Europe is not even a quarter of the globe, as the philosophers pretended it was. There is already a fifth division, and probably there will be many more, as the philosophers announce it impossible.” The cardinal127 was to inaugurate the institution on Sunday next at the Jesuits’ Church, by one of his celebrated sermons. It was to be a function of the highest class. All the faithful of consideration were to attend, but the attendance was not to be limited to the faithful. Every sincere adherent128 of church principles who was in a state of prayer and preparation, was solicited129 to be present and join in the holy and common work of restoring to the Divine Master His kingdom upon earth with its rightful name.
It was a brilliant ball. All the “nice” people in London were there. All the young men who now will never go to balls were present. This was from respect to the high character of Lord St. Jerome. Clare Arundel looked divine, dressed in a wondrous130 white robe garlanded with violets, just arrived from Paris, a present from her god-mother, the Duchess of Lorrain–Sehulenbourg. On her head a violet-wreath, deep and radiant as her eyes, and which admirably contrasted with her dark golden-brown hair.
Lothair danced with her, and never admired her more. Her manner toward him was changed. It was attractive, even alluring131. She smiled on him, she addressed him in tones of sympathy, even of tenderness. She seemed interested in all he was doing; she flattered him by a mode which is said to be irresistible to a man, by talking only of himself. When the dance had finished, he offered to attend her to the tea-room. She accepted the invitation even with cordiality.
“I think I must have some tea,” she said, “and I like to go with my kinsman132.”
Just before supper was announced, Lady St. Jerome told Lothair, to his surprise, that he was to attend Miss Arundel to the great ceremony. “It is Clare’s ball,” said Lady St. Jerome, “given in her honor, and you are to take care of her.”
“I am more than honored,” said Lothair. “But does Miss Arundel wish it, for, to tell you the truth, I thought I had rather abused her indulgence this evening?”
“Of course she wishes it,” said Lady St. Jerome. “Who should lead her out on such an occasion—her own ball—than the nearest and dearest relation she has in the world, except ourselves?”
Lothair made no reply to this unanswerable logic133, but was as surprised as he was gratified. He recalled the hour when the kinship was, at the best, but coldly recognized, the inscrutable haughtiness134, even distrust, with which Miss Arundel listened to the exposition of his views and feelings, and the contrast which her past mood presented to her present brilliant sympathy and cordial greeting. But he yielded to the magic of the flowing hour. Miss Arundel, seemed, indeed, quite a changed being to-night, full of vivacity135, fancy, feeling—almost fun. She was witty136, and humorous, and joyous137, and fascinating. As he fed her with cates as delicate as her lips, and manufactured for her dainty beverages138 which would not outrage139 their purity, Lothair, at last, could not refrain from intimating his sense of her unusual but charming joyousness140.
“No,” she said, turning round with animation141, “my natural disposition, always repressed, because I have felt overwhelmed by the desolation of the world. But now I have hope; I have more than hope, I have joy. I feel sure this idea of the restoration of Christendom comes from Heaven. It has restored me to myself, and has given me a sense of happiness in this life which I never could contemplate142. But what is the climax143 of my joy is, that you, after all my own blood, and one in whose career I have ever felt the deepest interest, should be ordained144 to lay, as it were, the first stone of this temple of divine love.”
It was break of day when Lothair jumped into his brougham. “Thank Heaves,” he exclaimed, “it is at last Friday!”
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1
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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7
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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8
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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17
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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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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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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pagodas
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| 塔，宝塔( pagoda的名词复数 ) | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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extirpate
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| v.除尽，灭绝 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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37
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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38
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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39
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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41
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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42
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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43
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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44
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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45
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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47
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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48
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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49
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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50
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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51
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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52
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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53
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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54
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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55
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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56
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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57
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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58
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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59
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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60
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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61
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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62
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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63
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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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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65
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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66
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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67
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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68
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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69
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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70
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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71
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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72
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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73
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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74
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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75
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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76
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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77
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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78
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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79
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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80
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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81
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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82
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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83
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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84
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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85
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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86
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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87
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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88
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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89
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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90
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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91
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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92
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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93
freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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94
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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95
enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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96
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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97
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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98
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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99
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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100
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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101
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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102
blazoned
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| v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布；夸示；装饰 | |
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103
commemorating
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的现在分词 ) | |
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104
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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105
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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106
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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107
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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108
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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109
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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110
bounteous
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| adj.丰富的 | |
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111
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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112
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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113
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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114
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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115
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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116
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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117
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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118
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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119
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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120
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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121
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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122
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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124
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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125
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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126
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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127
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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128
adherent
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| n.信徒，追随者，拥护者 | |
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129
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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130
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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131
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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132
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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133
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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134
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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135
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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136
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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137
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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138
beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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139
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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140
joyousness
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| 快乐，使人喜悦 | |
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141
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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142
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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143
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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144
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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