His eye-glass troubles
him, and he fidgets with its black string. He is not intellectual--he is
the most vacillating, most meek and timid of mortals--but he is a
gentleman in his own poor fashion, and has a sort of fluttering chivalry
about him, which, though feeble, is better than none.
"I really cannot tell you, Miss Marcia," he replies almost nervously. "I
hear--at the Club,--that--that Lady Bruce-Errington is a great beauty."
"Dew tell!" shrieks Marcia, with a burst of laughter. "Is she really
though! But I guess her looks won't mend her grammar any way!"
He makes no reply, as by this time they have reached the crowded
drawing-room, where Lady Winsleigh, radiant in ruby velvet and
rose-brilliants, stands receiving her guests, with a cool smile and nod
for mere acquaintances,--and a meaning flash of her dark eyes for her
intimates, and a general air of haughty insolence and perfect
self-satisfaction pervading her from head to foot. Close to her is her
husband, grave, courtly, and kind to all comers, and fulfilling his duty
as host to perfection,--still closer is Sir Francis Lennox, who in the
pauses of the incoming tide of guests finds occasion to whisper trifling
nothings in her tiny white ear, and even once ventures to arrange more
tastefully a falling cluster of pale roses that rests lightly on the
brief shoulder-strap (called by courtesy a sleeve) which, keeps her
ladyship's bodice in place.
Pages:
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577