Have you made up your mind on the question of seeming and being in the world? I mean, suppose you are poor, is it right for you to seem to be well off? Have people an honest right to keep up appearances? Are you justified1 in starving your dinner-table in order to keep a carriage; to have such an expensive house that you can’t by any possibility help a poor relation; to array your daughters in costly3 milliners’ wares4 because they live with girls whose parents are twice as rich? Sometimes it is hard to say where honest pride ends and hypocrisy5 begins. To obtrude6 your poverty is mean and slavish; as it is odious8 for a beggar to ask compassion9 by showing his sores. But to simulate prosperity — to be wealthy and lavish7 thrice a year when you ask your friends, and for the rest of the time to munch10 a crust and sit by one candle — are the folks who practise this deceit worthy11 of applause or a whipping? Sometimes it is noble pride, sometimes shabby swindling. When I see Eugenia with her dear children exquisitely12 neat and cheerful; not showing the slightest semblance13 of poverty, or uttering the smallest complaint; persisting that Squanderfield, her husband, treats her well, and is good at heart; and denying that he leaves her and her young ones in want; I admire and reverence14 that noble falsehood — that beautiful constancy and endurance which disdains15 to ask compassion. When I sit at poor Jezebella’s table, and am treated to her sham16 bounties17 and shabby splendour, I only feel anger for the hospitality, and that dinner, and guest, and host, are humbugs18 together.
Talbot Twysden’s dinner-table is large, and the guests most respectable. There is always a bigwig or two present, and a dining dowager who frequents the greatest houses. There is a butler who offers you wine; there’s a menu du d?ner before Mrs. Twysden; and to read it you would fancy you were at a good dinner. It tastes of chopped straw. Oh, the dreary19 sparkle of that feeble champagne20; the audacity21 of that public-house sherry; the swindle of that acrid22 claret; the fiery23 twang of that clammy port! I have tried them all, I tell you! It is sham wine, a sham dinner, a sham welcome, a sham cheerfulness, among the guests assembled. I feel that that woman eyes and counts the cutlets as they are carried off the tables; perhaps watches that one which you try to swallow. She has counted and grudged25 each candle by which the cook prepares the meal. Does her big coachman fatten26 himself on purloined27 oats and beans, and Thorley’s food for cattle? Of the rinsings of those wretched bottles the butler will have to give a reckoning in the morning. Unless you are of the very great monde, Twysden and his wife think themselves better than you are, and seriously patronize you. They consider it is a privilege to be invited to those horrible meals to which they gravely ask the greatest folks in the country. I actually met Winton there — the famous Winton — the best dinner-giver in the world (ah, what a position for a man!) I watched him, and marked the sort of wonder which came over him as he tasted and sent away dish after dish, glass after glass. “Try that Chateau29 Margaux, Winton!” calls out the host. “It is some that Bottleby and I imported.” Imported! I see Winton’s face as he tastes the wine, and puts it down. He does not like to talk about that dinner. He has lost a day. Twysden will continue to ask him every year; will continue to expect to be asked in return, with Mrs. Twysden and one of his daughters; and will express his surprise loudly at the club, saying, “Hang Winton! Deuce take the fellow! He has sent me no game this year!” When foreign dukes and princes arrive, Twysden straightway collars them, and invites them to his house. And sometimes they go once — and then ask, “Qui donc est ce Monsieur Tvisden, qui est si dro?le?” And he elbows his way up to them at the Minister’s assemblies, and frankly30 gives them his hand. And calm Mrs. Twysden wriggles31, and works, and slides, and pushes, and tramples32 if need be, her girls following behind her, until she too has come up under the eyes of the great man, and bestowed33 on him a smile and a curtsey. Twysden grasps prosperity cordially by the hand. He says to success, “Bravo!” On the contrary, I never saw a man more resolute34 in not knowing unfortunate people, or more daringly forgetful of those whom he does not care to remember. If this Levite met a wayfarer35, going down from Jerusalem, who had fallen among thieves, do you think he would stop to rescue the fallen man? He would neither give wine, nor oil, nor money. He would pass on perfectly36 satisfied with his own virtue37, and leave the other to go, as best he might, to Jericho.
What is this? Am I angry because Twysden has left off asking me to his vinegar and chopped hay? No. I think not. Am I hurt because Mrs. Twysden sometimes patronizes my wife, and sometimes cuts her? Perhaps. Only women thoroughly38 know the insolence39 of women towards one another in the world. That is a very stale remark. They receive and deliver stabs, smiling politely. Tom Sayers could not take punishment more gaily40 than they do. If you could but see under the skin, you would find their little hearts scarred all over with little lancet digs. I protest I have seen my own wife enduring the impertinence of this woman, with a face as calm and placid41 as she wears when old Twysden himself is talking to her, and pouring out one of his maddening long stories. Oh, no! I am not angry at all. I can see that by the way in which I am writing of these folks. By the way, whilst I am giving this candid42 opinion of the Twysdens, do I sometimes pause to consider what they think of me? What do I care? Think what you like. Meanwhile we bow to one another at parties. We smile at each other in a sickly way. And as for the dinners in Beaunash Street, I hope those who eat them enjoy their food.
Twysden is one of the chiefs now of the Powder and Pomatum Office (the Pigtail branch was finally abolished in 1833, after the Reform Bill, with a compensation to the retiring under-secretary), and his son is a clerk in the same office. When they came out, the daughters were very pretty — even my wife allows that. One of them used to ride in the Park with her father or brother daily; and knowing what his salary and wife’s fortune were, and what the rent of his house in Beaunash Street, everybody wondered how the Twysdens could make both ends meet. They had horses, carriages, and a great house fit for at least five thousand a year; they had not half as much, as everybody knew; and it was supposed that old Ringwood must make his niece an allowance. She certainly worked hard to get it. I spoke43 of stabs anon, and poor little breasts and sides scarred all over. No nuns44, no monks45, no fakeers take whippings more kindly46 than some devotees of the world; and, as the punishment is one for edification, let us hope the world lays smartly on to back and shoulders, and uses the thong47 well.
When old Ringwood, at the close of his lifetime, used to come to visit his dear niece and her husband and children, he always brought a cat-of-nine-tails in his pocket, and administered it to the whole household. He grinned at the poverty, the pretence48, the meanness of the people, as they knelt before him and did him homage49. The father and mother trembling brought the girls up for punishment, and, piteously smiling, received their own boxes on the ear in presence of their children. “Ah!” the little French governess used to say, grinding her white teeth, “I like milor to come. All day you vip me. When milor come, he vip you, and you kneel down and kiss de rod.”
They certainly knelt and took their whipping with the most exemplary fortitude50. Sometimes the lash51 fell on papa’s back, sometimes on mamma’s : now it stung Agnes, and now it lighted on Blanche’s pretty shoulders. But I think it was on the heir of the house, young Ringwood Twysden, that my lord loved best to operate. Ring’s vanity was very thin-skinned, his selfishness easily wounded, and his contortions52 under punishment amused the old tormentor53.
As my lord’s brougham drives up — the modest little brown brougham, with the noble horse, the lord chancellor54 of a coachman, and the ineffable55 footman — the ladies, who know the whirr of the wheels, and may be quarrelling in the drawing-room, call a truce56 to the fight, and smooth down their ruffled57 tempers and raiment. Mamma is writing at her table in that beautiful, clear hand which we all admire; Blanche is at her book; Agnes is rising from the piano quite naturally. A quarrel between those gentle, smiling, delicate creatures! Impossible! About your most common piece of hypocrisy how men will blush and bungle58: how easily, how gracefully59, how consummately60, women will perform it!
“Well,” growls61 my lord, “you are all in such pretty attitudes, I make no doubt you have been sparring. I suspect, Maria, the men must know what devilish bad tempers the girls have got. Who can have seen you fighting? You’re quiet enough here, you little monkeys. I tell you what it is. Ladies’-maids get about and talk to the valets in the housekeeper’s room, and the men tell their masters. Upon my word I believe it was that business last year at Whipham which frightened Greenwood off. Famous match. Good house in town and country. No mother alive. Agnes might have had it her own way, but for that — ”
“We are not all angels in our family, uncle!” cries Miss Agnes, reddening.
“And your mother is too sharp. The men are afraid of you, Maria. I’ve heard several young men say so. At White’s they talk about it quite freely. Pity for the girls. Great pity. Fellows come and tell me. Jack62 Hall, and fellows who go about everywhere.”
“I’m sure I don’t care what Captain Hall says about me — odious little wretch28!” cries Blanche.
“There you go off in a tantrum! Hall never has any opinion of his own. He only fetches and carries what other people say. And he says, fellows say they are frightened of your mother. La bless you! Hall has no opinion. A fellow might commit murder, and Hall would wait at the door. Quite a discreet63 man. But I told him to ask about you. And that’s what I hear. And he says that Agnes is making eyes at the doctor’s boy.”
“It’s a shame,” cries Agnes, shedding tears under her martyrdom.
“Older than he is; but that’s no obstacle. Good-looking boy, I suppose you don’t object to that? Has his poor mother’s money, and his father’s : must be well to do. A vulgar fellow, but a clever fellow, and a determined64 fellow, the doctor — and a fellow who, I suspect, is capable of anything. Shouldn’t wonder at that fellow marrying some rich dowager. Those doctors get an immense influence over women; and unless I’m mistaken in my man, Maria, your poor sister got hold of a — ”
“Uncle!” cries Mrs. Twysden, pointing to her daughters, “before these — ”
“Before those innocent lambs! Hem24! Well, I think Firmin is of the wolf sort:” and the old noble laughed, and showed his own fierce fangs65 as he spoke.
“I grieve to say, my lord, I agree with you,” remarks Mr. Twysden. I don’t think Firmin a man of high principle. A clever man? Yes. An accomplished66 man? Yes. A good physician? Yes. A prosperous man? Yes. But what’s a man without principle?”
“You ought to have been a parson, Twysden.”
“Others have said so, my lord. My poor mother often regretted that I didn’t choose the Church. When I was at Cambridge, I used to speak constantly at the Union. I practised. I do not disguise from you that my aim was public life. I am free to confess I think the House of Commons would have been my sphere; and, had my means permitted, I should certainly have come forward.”
Lord Ringwood smiled, and winked68 to his niece —
“He means, my dear, that he would like to wag his jaws69 at my expense, and that I should put him in for Whipham.”
“There are, I think, worse members of Parliament,” remarked Mr. Twysden.
“If there was a box of ’em like you, what a cage it would be!” roared my lord. “By George, I’m sick of jaw70. And I would like to see a king of spirit in this country, who would shut up the talking shops, and gag the whole chattering71 crew!”
“I am a partisan72 of order — but a lover of freedom,” continues Twysden. “I hold that the balance of our constitution — ”
I think my lord would have indulged in a few of those oaths with which his old-fashioned conversation was liberally garnished73; but the servant, entering at this moment, announces Mr. Philip Firmin; and ever so faint a blush flutters up in Agnes’ cheek, who feels that the old lord’s eye is upon her.
“So, sir, I saw you at the opera last night,” says Lord Ringwood.
“I saw you, too,” says downright Phil.
The women looked terrified, and Twysden scared. The Twysdens had Lord Ringwood’s box sometimes. But there were boxes in which the old man sate74, and in which they never could see him.
“Why don’t you look at the stage, sir, when you go to the opera, and not me? When you go to church you ought to look at the parson, oughtn’t you?” growled75 the old man. “I’m about as good to look at as the fellow who dances first in the ballet — and very nearly as old. But if I were you, I should think looking at the Ellsler better fun.”
And now you may fancy of what old, old times we are writing — times in which those horrible old male dancers yet existed — hideous76 old creatures, with low dresses and short sleeves, and wreaths of flowers, or hats and feathers round their absurd old wigs77 — who skipped at the head of the ballet. Let us be thankful that those old apes have almost vanished off the stage, and left it in possession of the beauteous bounders of the other sex. Ah, my dear young friends, time will be when these too will cease to appear more than mortally beautiful! To Philip, at his age, they yet looked as lovely as houris. At this time the simple young fellow, surveying the ballet from his stall at the opera, mistook carmine78 for blushes, pearl powder for native snows, and cotton-wool for natural symmetry; and I dare say when he went into the world, he was not more clear-sighted about its rouged79 innocence80, its padded pretension81, and its painted candour.
Old Lord Ringwood had a humorous pleasure in petting and coaxing82 Philip Firmin before Philip’s relatives of Beaunash Street. Even the girls felt a little plaintive83 envy at the partiality which uncle Ringwood exhibited for Phil; but the elder Twysdens and Ringwood Twysden, their son, writhed84 with agony at the preference which the old man sometimes showed for the doctor’s boy. Phil was much taller, much handsomer, much stronger, much better tempered, and much richer, than young Twysden. He would be the sole inheritor of his father’s fortune, and had his mother’s thirty thousand pounds. Even when they told him his father would marry again, Phil laughed, and did not seem to care — “I wish him joy of his new wife,” was all he could be got to say: “when he gets one, I suppose I shall go into chambers85. Old Parr Street is not as gay as Pall86 Mall.” I am not angry with Mrs. Twysden for having a little jealousy87 of her nephew. Her boy and girls were the fruit of a dutiful marriage; and Phil was the son of a disobedient child. Her children were always on their best behaviour before their great uncle; and Phil cared for him no more than for any other man; and he liked Phil the best. Her boy was as humble88 and eager to please as any of his lordship’s humblest henchmen; and Lord Ringwood snapped at him, browbeat89 him, and trampled90 on the poor darling’s tenderest feelings, and treated him scarcely better than a lacquey. As for poor Mr. Twysden, my lord not only yawned unreservedly in his face (that could not be helped — poor Talbot’s talk set many of his acquaintance asleep) — but laughed at him, interrupted him, and told him to hold his tongue. On this day as the family sat together, at the pleasant hour — the before dinner hour — the fireside and tea-table hour — Lord Ringwood said to Phil —
“Dine with me to-day, sir?”
“Why does he not ask me, with my powers of conversation?” thought old Twysden to himself.
“Hang him, he always asks that beggar,” writhed young Twysden, in his corner.
“Very sorry, sir, can’t come. Have asked some fellows to dine at the Blue Posts,” says Phil.
“Confound you, sir, why don’t you put ’em off?” cries the old lord. “You’d put ’em off, Twysden, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, sir!” The heart of father and son both beat.
“You know you would; and you quarrel with this boy for not throwing his friends over. Good-night, Firmin, since you won’t come.”
And with this my lord was gone.
The two gentlemen of the house glumly91 looked from the window, and saw my lord’s brougham drive swiftly away in the rain.
“I hate your dining at those horrid92 taverns,” whispered a young lady to Philip.
“It is better fun than dining at home,” Philip remarks.
“You smoke and drink too much. You come home late, and you don’t live in a proper monde, sir!” continues the young lady.
“What would you have me do?”
“Oh, nothing! You must dine with those horrible men,” cries Agnes; else you might have gone to Lady Pendleton’s to-night.”
“I can throw over the men easily enough, if you wish,” answered the young man.
“I? I have no wish of the sort. Have you not already refused uncle Ringwood?”
“You are not Lord Ringwood,” says Phil, with a tremor94 in his voice. “I don’t know there is much I would refuse you.”
“You silly boy! What do I ever ask you to do that you ought to refuse? I want you to live in our world, and not with your dreadful wild Oxford95 and Temple bachelors. I don’t want you to smoke. I want you to go into the world of which you have the entrée — and you refuse your uncle on account of some horrid engagement at a tavern93!”
“Shall I stop here? Aunt, will you give me some dinner — here?” asks the young man.
“We have dined: my husband and son dine out,” said gentle Mrs. Twysden.
There was cold mutton and tea for the ladies; and Mrs. Twysden did not like to seat her nephew, who was accustomed to good fare and high living, to that meagre meal.
“You see I must console myself at the tavern,” Philip said. “We shall have a pleasant party there.”
“And pray who makes it?” asks the lady.
“There is Ridley, the painter.”
“My dear Philip! Do you know that his father was actually — ”
“In the service of Lord Todmorden? He often tells us so. He is a queer character, the old man.”
“Mr. Ridley is a man of genius, certainly. His pictures are delicious, and he goes everywhere — but — but you provoke me, Philip, by your carelessness; indeed you do. Why should you be dining with the sons of footmen, when the first houses in the country might be open to you? You pain me, you foolish boy.”
“For dining in company of a man of genius? Come, Agnes!” And the young man’s brow grew dark. “Besides,” he added, with a tone of sarcasm96 in his voice, which Miss Agnes did not like at all — “besides, my dear, you know he dines at Lord Pendleton’s .”
“What is that you are talking of Lady Pendleton, children?” asked watchful97 mamma from her corner.
“Ridley dines there. He is going to dine with me at a tavern to-day. And Lord Halden is coming — and Mr. Winton is coming — having heard of the famous beefsteaks.”
“Winton! Lord Halden! Beefsteaks! Where? By George! I have a mind to go, too! Where do you fellows dine? au cabaret? Hang me, I’ll be one,” shrieked98 little Twysden, to the terror of Philip, who knew his uncle’s awful powers of conversation. But Twysden remembered himself in good time, and to the intense relief of young Firmin. “Hang me. I forgot! Your aunt and I dine with the Bladeses. Stupid old fellow, the admiral, and bad wine — which is unpardonable; but we must go — on n’a que sa parole, hey? Tell Winton that I had meditated99 joining him, and that I have still some of that Chateau Margaux he liked. Halden’s father I know well. Tell him so. Bring him here. Maria, send a Thursday card to Lord Halden! You must bring him here to dinner, Philip. That’s the best way to make acquaintance, my boy!” And the little man swaggers off, waving a bed-candle, as if he was going to quaff100 a bumper101 of sparkling spermaceti.
The mention of such great personages as Lord Halden and Mr. Winton silenced the reproofs102 of the pensive2 Agnes.
“You won’t care for our quiet fireside whilst you live with those fine people, Philip,” she sighed. There was no talk now of his throwing himself away on bad company.
So Philip did not dine with his relatives: but Talbot Twysden took good care to let Lord Ringwood know how young Firmin had offered to dine with his aunt that day after refusing his lordship. And everything to Phil’s discredit103, and every act of extravagance or wildness which the young man committed, did Phil’s uncle, and Phil’s cousin Ringwood Twysden, convey to the old nobleman. Had not these been the informers, Lord Ringwood would have been angry; for he exacted obedience104 and servility from all round about him. But it was pleasanter to vex105 the Twysdens than to scold and browbeat Philip, and so his lordship chose to laugh and be amused at Phil’s insubordination. He saw, too, other things of which he did not speak. He was a wily old man, who could afford to be blind upon occasion.
What do you judge from the fact that Philip was ready to make or break engagements at a young lady’s instigation? When you were twenty years old, had no young ladies an influence over you? Were they not commonly older than yourself? Did your youthful passion lead to anything, and are you very sorry now that it did not? Suppose you had had your soul’s wish and married her, of what age would she be now? And now when you go into the world and see her, do you on your conscience very much regret that the little affair came to an end? Is it that (lean, or fat, or stumpy, or tall) woman with all those children whom you once chose to break your heart about; and do you still envy Jones? Philip was in live with his cousin, no doubt, but at the university had he not been previously106 in love with the Tomkinsian professor’s daughter, Miss Budd; and had he not already written verses to Miss Flower, his neighbour’s daughter in Old Parr Street? And don’t young men always begin by falling in love with ladies older than themselves? Agnes certainly was Philip’s senior, as her sister constantly took care to inform him.
And Agnes might have told stories about Blanche, if she choose — as you may about me, and I about you. Not quite true stories, but stories with enough alloy107 of lies to make them serviceable coin; stories such as we hear daily in the world; stories such as we read in the most learned and conscientious108 history-books, which are told by the most respectable persons, and perfectly authentic109 until contradicted. It is only our histories that can’t be contradicted (unless, to be sure, novelists coantradict themselves, as sometimes they will). What we say about people’s virtues110, failings, characters, you may be sure is all true. And I defy any man to assert that my opinion of the Twysden family is malicious111, or unkind, or unfounded in any particular. Agnes wrote verses, and set her own and other writers’ poems to music. Blanche was scientific, and attended the Albemarle Street lectures sedulously112. They are both clever women as times go; well educated and accomplished, and very well-mannered when they choose to be pleasant. If you were a bachelor, say, with a good fortune, or a widower113 who wanted consolation114, or a lady giving very good parties and belonging to the monde, you would find them agreeable people. If you were a little Treasury115 clerk, or a young barrister with no practice, or a lady old or young, not quite of the monde, your opinion of them would not be so favourable116. I have seen them cut, and scorn, and avoid, and caress117, and kneel down and worship the same person. When Mrs. Lovel first gave parties, don’t I remember the shocked countenances118 of the Twysden family? Were ever shoulders colder than yours, dear girls? Now they love her; they fondle her step-children; they praise her to her face and behind her handsome back; they take her hand in public; they call her by her Christian119 name; they fall into ecstasies120 over her toilettes, and would fetch coals for her dressing-room fire if she but gave them the word. She is not changed. She is the same lady who once was a governess, and no colder and no warmer since then. But you see her prosperity has brought virtues into evidence, which people did not perceive when she was poor. Could people see Cinderella’s beauty when she was in rags by the fire, or until she stepped out of her fairy coach in her diamonds? How are you to recognize a diamond in a dusthole? Only very clever eyes can do that. Whereas a lady, in a fairy coach and eight, naturally creates a sensation; and enraptured121 princes come and beg to have the honour of dancing with her.
In the character of infallible historian, then, I declare that if Miss Twysden at three-and-twenty feels ever so much or little attachment122 for her cousin who is not yet of age, there is no reason to be angry with her. A brave, handsome, blundering, downright young fellow, with broad shoulders, high spirits, and quite fresh blushes on his face, with very good talents (though he has been wofully idle, and requested to absent himself temporarily from his university), the possessor of a competent fortune and the heir of another, may naturally make some impression on a lady’s heart with whom kinsmanship and circumstance bring him into daily communion. When had any sound so hearty123 as Phil’s laugh been heard in Beaunash Street? His jolly frankness touched his aunt, a clever woman. She would smile and say, “My dear Philip, it is not only what you say, but what you are going to say next, which keeps me in such a perpetual tremor.” There may have been a time once when she was frank and cordial herself: ever so long ago, when she and her sister were two blooming girls, lovingly clinging together, and just stepping forth124 into the world. But if you succeed in keeping a fine house on a small income; in showing a cheerful face to the world though oppressed with ever so much care; in bearing with dutiful reverence an intolerable old bore of a husband (and I vow125 it is this quality in Mrs. Twysden for which I most admire her); in submitting to defeats patiently; to humiliations with smiles, so as to hold your own in your darling monde; you may succeed, but you must give up being frank and cordial. The marriage of her sister to the doctor gave Maria Ringwood a great panic, for Lord Ringwood was furious when the news came. Then, perhaps, she sacrificed a little private passion of her own: then she set her cap at a noble young neighbour of my lord’s , who jilted her: then she took up with Talbot Twysden, Esquire, of the Powder and Pomatum Office, and made a very faithful wife to him, and was a very careful mother to his children. But as for frankness and cordiality, my good friend, accept from a lady what she can give you — good manners, pleasant talk, and decent attention. If you go to her breakfast-table, don’t ask for a roc’s egg, but eat that moderately fresh hen’s egg which John brings you. When Mrs. Twysden is in her open carriage in the Park, how prosperous, handsome, and jolly she looks — the girls how smiling and young (that is, you know, considering all things); the horses look fat, the coachman and footman wealthy and sleek126; they exchange bows with the tenants127 of other carriages — well-known aristocrats128. Jones and Brown, leaning over the railings, and seeing the Twysden equipage pass, have not the slightest doubt that it contains people of the highest wealth and fashion. “I say, Jones, my boy, what noble family has the motto, Wel done Twys done? and what clipping girls there were in that barouche!” B. remarks to J., “and what a handsome young swell129 that is riding the bay mare130, and leaning over and talking to the yellow-haired girl!” And it is evident to one of those gentlemen, at least, that he has been looking at your regular first-rate tiptop people.
As for Phil Firmin on his bay mare with his geranium in his button-hole, there is no doubt that Philippus looks as handsome, and as rich, and as brave as any lord. And I think Jones must have felt a little pang131 when his friend told him, “That a lord! Bless you, it’s only a swell doctor’s son.” But while J. and B. fancy all the little party very happy, they do not hear Phil whisper to his cousin, “I hope you liked your partner last night?” and they do not see how anxious Mrs. Twysden is under her smiles, how she perceives Colonel Shafto’s cab coming up (the dancer in question), and how she would rather have Phil anywhere than by that particular wheel of her carriage; how Lady Braglands has just passed them by without noticing them — Lady Braglands, who has a ball, and is determined not to ask that woman and her two endless girls; and how, though Lady Braglands won’t see Mrs. Twysden in her great staring equipage, and the three faces which have been beaming smiles at her, she instantly perceives Lady Lovel, who is passing ensconced in her little brougham, and kisses her fingers twenty times over. How should poor J. and B., who are not, vous comprenez, du monde, understand these mysteries?
“That’s young Firmin, is it, that handsome young fellow?” says Brown to Jones.
“Doctor married the Earl of Ringwood’s niece — ran away with her, you know.”
“Good practice?”
“Capital. First-rate. All the tiptop people. Great ladies’ doctor. Can’t do without him. Makes a fortune, besides what he had with his wife.”
“We’ve seen his name — the old man’s — on some very queer paper,” says B. with a wink67 to J. By which I conclude they are city gentlemen. And they look very hard at friend Philip, as he comes to talk and shake hands with some pedestrians132 who are gazing over the railings at the busy and pleasant Park scene.
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justified
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pensive
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costly
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wares
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hypocrisy
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obtrude
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lavish
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odious
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compassion
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munch
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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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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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13
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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14
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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disdains
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| 鄙视，轻蔑( disdain的名词复数 ) | |
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16
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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17
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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18
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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19
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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20
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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21
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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22
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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24
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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25
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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26
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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27
purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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29
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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30
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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31
wriggles
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| n.蠕动，扭动( wriggle的名词复数 )v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的第三人称单数 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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32
tramples
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| 踩( trample的第三人称单数 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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33
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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35
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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36
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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37
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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38
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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39
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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40
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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41
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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42
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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43
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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44
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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45
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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46
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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47
thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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48
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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49
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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50
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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51
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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52
contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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53
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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54
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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55
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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56
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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57
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
bungle
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| v.搞糟；n.拙劣的工作 | |
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59
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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60
consummately
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| adv.完成地，至上地 | |
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61
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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62
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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63
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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64
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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65
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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66
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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67
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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68
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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69
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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70
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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71
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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72
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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73
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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75
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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76
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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77
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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78
carmine
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| n.深红色，洋红色 | |
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79
rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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81
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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82
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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83
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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84
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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85
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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86
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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87
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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88
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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89
browbeat
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| v.欺侮；吓唬 | |
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90
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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91
glumly
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| adv.忧郁地，闷闷不乐地；阴郁地 | |
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92
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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93
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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94
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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95
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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96
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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97
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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98
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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100
quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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101
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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102
reproofs
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| n.责备，责难，指责( reproof的名词复数 ) | |
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103
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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104
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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105
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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106
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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107
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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108
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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109
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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110
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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111
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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112
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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113
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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114
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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115
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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116
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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117
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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118
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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119
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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120
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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121
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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123
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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124
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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125
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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126
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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127
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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128
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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129
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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130
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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131
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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132
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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