There was no hurry--he had not the least intention of arriving
at Winsleigh House too early. He knew what the effect of Thelma's
entrance would be--and he smiled as he thought of it. He was waiting for
her now,--he himself was ready in full evening dress--and remarkably
handsome he looked. He walked up and down restlessly for a minute or
so,--then taking up a volume of Keats, he threw himself into an easy
chair and soon became absorbed. His eyes were still on the printed page,
when a light touch on his shoulder startled him,--a soft, half-laughing
voice inquired--"Philip! Do I please you?"
He sprang up and faced her,--but for a moment could not speak. The
perfection of her beauty had never ceased to arouse his wonder and
passionate admiration,--but on this night, as she stood before him,
arrayed in a simple, trailing robe of ivory-tinted velvet, with his
family diamonds flashing in a tiara of light on her hair, glistening
against the whiteness of her throat and rounded arms, she looked
angelically lovely--so radiant, so royal, and withal so innocently
happy, that, wistfully gazing at her, and thinking of the social clique
into which she was about to make her entry, he wondered vaguely whether
he was not wrong to take so pure and fair a creature among the false
glitter and reckless hypocrisy of modern fashion and folly.
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