“Ah, Lady Florence, I kiss your hands—I am charmed to find you acquainted with my friend Maltravers.”
“And Mr. Ferrers, what makes him so late to-night?” asked the fair Florence, with a sudden ease, which rather startled Maltravers.
“A dull dinner, voila tout—I have no other excuse.” And Ferrers, sliding into a vacant chair on the other side of Lady Florence, conversed volubly and unceasingly, as if seeking to monopolise her attention.
Ernest had not been so much captivated with the manner of Florence as he had been struck with her beauty, and now, seeing her apparently engaged with another, he rose and quietly moved away. He was soon one of a knot of men who were conversing on the absorbing topics of the day; and as by degrees the exciting subject brought out his natural eloquence and masculine sense, the talkers became listeners, the knot widened into a circle, and he himself was unconsciously the object of general attention and respect.
“And what think you of Mr. Maltravers?” asked Ferrers, carelessly; “does he keep up your expectations?”
Lady Florence had sunk into a reverie, and Ferrers repeated his question.
“He is younger than I imagined him,—and—and—”
“Handsomer, I suppose, you mean.”
“No! calmer and less animated.”
“He seems animated enough now,” said Ferrers; “but your ladylike conversation failed in striking the Promethean spark. ‘Lay that flattering unction to your soul.’”