The Fly及其译文.doc

The Fly by Katherine Mansfield You are very snug in here, piped old Mr Woodifield, and he peered out of the great, green leather armchair by his friend the bosss 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, since his... stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldnt imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed.... 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 see him. Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, Its snug in here--upon my word! Yes, its 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. Ive 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 bookcase 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 Woodifields attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers parks with p