The Fly
by Katherine Mansfield 'Y ou are very snug in here,' piped old Mr Woodifield, and he peered out of the great, green leather armchair by his friend the boss's desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the hou every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dresd and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldn't imagine. Made a nuisance of himlf to his friends, Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss, who rolled in his once chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he, and still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to e him.
Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, 'It's snug in here--upon my word!'
'Y es, it's comfortable enough,' agreed the boss, and he nipped the Financial Times with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of his room; he liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler.
'I've had it done up lately,' he explained, as he had explained for the past--how many?--weeks. 'New carpet,' and he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern of large white rings. 'New furniture,' and he nodded towards the massive bookca and the table with legs like twisted treacle. 'Electric heating!' He waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan. But he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of tho spectral photographers' parks with photographers' storm-clouds behind him. It was not new. It had been there for over six years.
'There was something I wanted to tell you,' said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. 'Now what was it? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning.' His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard.
Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, 'I tell you what. I've got a little drop of something here that will do you good before you go out into the cold again. It's beautiful stuff. It wouldn't hurt a child.' He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. 'That's the medicine,' said he. 'And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came from the cellars at Windsor Casl.'
Old Woodifield's mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn't have looked more surprid if the boss had produced a rabbit.
少先队论文'It's whisky, ain't it?' he piped, feebly.
The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was.
'Do you know,' said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, 'they won't let me touch it at home.' And he looked as though he was going to cry.
扩张性财政政策
'Ah, that's where we know a bit more than the ladies,' cried the boss, swooping across for two tumblers that stood on the table with the water-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. 'Drink it down. It'll do you good. And don't put any water with it. It's sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah!' He tosd off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at old Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps.
The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, 'It's nutty!'
华而不实
But it warmed him; it crept into his chill old brain--he remembered. 'That was it,' he said, heaving himlf out of his chair. 'I thought you'd like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a loo
k at poor Reggie's grave, and they happened to come across your boy's. They're quite near each other, it ems.'
芽庄在哪里
Old Woodifield paud, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his eyelids showed that he heard.
'The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept,' piped the old voice. 'Beautifully looked after. Couldn't be better if they were at home.
Y ou've not been across, have yer?'
小学三年级作文300字'No, no!' For various reasons the boss had not been across.
'There's miles of it,' quavered old Woodifield, 'and it's all as neat as a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths.' It was plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path.
The pau came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully.
'Do you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?' he piped. 'Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a half-crown. And she hadn't taken more th
凤凰涅盘浴火重生an a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought the pot away with her to teach 'em a lesson. Quite right, too; it's trading on our feelings. They think becau we're over there having a look round we're ready to pay anything. That's what it is.' And he turned towards the door.
'Quite right, quite right!' cried the boss, though what was quite right he hadn't the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out. Woodifield was gone.
生存的反义词For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the
grey-haired office mesnger, watching him, dodged in and out of his cubby hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then: 'I'll e nobody for half an hour, Macey,' said the boss. 'Understand? Nobody at all.'
V ery good, sir.'
The door shut, the firm heavy steps recrosd the bright carpet, the fat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, the boss covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged
剑缘
It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that remark upon him about the boy's grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened and he had en the boy lying there with Woodifield's girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had pasd away, the boss never thought of the boy except as lying unchanged, unblemished in his uniform, asleep for ever. 'My son!' groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first months and even years after the boy's death, he had only to say tho words to be overcome by such grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time, he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down, but not he. How was it possible? His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth the boss had worked at building up this business for him; it had no other
