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An International Episode-Part1_HENRY JAMES(1843-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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seated in graceful attitudes on the chocolate-colored steps.



In one or two places these young ladies were conversing across the street

with other young ladies seated in similar postures and costumes



in front of the opposite houses, and in the warm night air their

colloquial tones sounded strange in the ears of the young Englishmen.



One of our friends, nevertheless--the younger one--intimated that

he felt a disposition to interrupt a few of these soft familiarities;



but his companion observed, pertinently enough, that he had

better be careful. "We must not begin with making mistakes,"



said his companion.

"But he told us, you know--he told us," urged the young man,



alluding again to the friend on the steamer.

"Never mind what he told us!" answered his comrade, who, if he had



greater talents, was also apparently more of a moralist.

By bedtime--in their impatience to taste of a terrestrial couch again our



seafarers went to bed early--it was still insufferably hot, and the buzz

of the mosquitoes at the open windows might have passed for an audible



crepitation of the temperature. "We can't stand this, you know,"

the young Englishmen said to each other; and they tossed about all night



more boisterously than they had tossed upon the Atlantic billows.

On the morrow, their first thought was that they would re-embark that day



for England; and then it occured to them that they might find an asylum

nearer at hand. The cave of Aeolus became their ideal of comfort,



and they wondered where the Americans went when they wished to cool off.

They had not the least idea, and they determined to apply for information



to Mr. J. L. Westgate. This was the name inscribed in a bold hand on the back

of a letter carefully preserved in the pocketbook of our junior traveler.



Beneath the address, in the left-hand corner of the envelope,

were the words, "Introducing Lord Lambeth and Percy Beaumont, Esq."



The letter had been given to the two Englishmen by a good friend

of theirs in London, who had been in America two years previously,



and had singled out Mr. J. L. Westgate from the many friends

he had left there as the consignee, as it were, of his compatriots.



"He is a capital fellow," the Englishman in London had said,

"and he has got an awfully pretty wife. He's tremendously" target="_blank" title="ad.可怕地；极大地">tremendously hospitable--



he will do everything in the world for you; and as he knows everyone

over there, it is quite needless I should give you any other introduction.



He will make you see everyone; trust to him for putting you into circulation.

He has got a tremendously" target="_blank" title="ad.可怕地；极大地">tremendously pretty wife." It was natural that in the hour



of tribulation Lord Lambeth and Mr. Percy Beaumont should have bethought

themselves of a gentleman whose attractions had been thus vividly depicted;



all the more so that he lived in the Fifth Avenue, and that the Fifth Avenue,

as they had ascertained the night before, was contiguous to their hotel.



"Ten to one he'll be out of town," said Percy Beaumont; "but we can at least

find out where he has gone, and we can immediately start in pursuit.



He can't possibly have gone to a hotter place, you know."

"Oh, there's only one hotter place," said Lord Lambeth,



"and I hope he hasn't gone there."

They strolled along the shady side of the street to the number



indicated upon the precious letter. The house presented

an imposing chocolate-colored expanse, relieved by facings



and window cornices of florid sculpture, and by a couple of dusty

rose trees which clambered over the balconies and the portico.



This last-mentioned feature was approached by a monumental

flight of steps.



"Rather better than a London house," said Lord Lambeth,

looking down from this altitude, after they had rung the bell.



"It depends upon what London house you mean," replied his companion.

"You have a tremendous chance to get wet between the house door



and your carriage."

"Well," said Lord Lambeth, glancing at the burning heavens,



"I 'guess' it doesn't rain so much here!"

The door was opened by a long Negro in a white jacket, who grinned



familiarly when Lord Lambeth asked for Mr. Westgate.

"He ain't at home, sah; he's downtown at his o'fice."






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