“Will you do me the honour to waltz?” said the tall English lord, who had a vague idea that Madame de Ventadour meant she would rather dance than sit still. The Frenchman smiled.
“Lord Taunton enforces your own philosophy,” said the minister.
Lord Taunton smiled because every one else smiled; and, besides, he had beautiful teeth: but he looked anxious for an answer.
“Not to-night,—I seldom dance. Who is that very pretty woman? What lovely complexions the English have! And who,” continued Madame de Ventadour, without waiting for an answer to the first question, “who is that gentleman,—the young one I mean,—leaning against the door?”
“What, with the dark moustache?” said Lord Taunton. “He is a cousin of mine.”
“Oh, no; not Colonel Bellfield; I know him—how amusing he is!—no; the gentleman I mean wears no moustache.”
“Oh, the tall Englishman with the bright eyes and high forehead,” said the French minister. “He is just arrived—from the East, I believe.”
“It is a striking countenance,” said Madame de Ventadour; “there is something chivalrous in the turn of the head. Without doubt, Lord Taunton, he is ‘noble’?”
“He is what you call ‘noble,’” replied Lord Taunton—“that is, what we call a ‘gentleman;’ his name is Maltravers. He lately came of age; and has, I believe, rather a good property.”
“Monsieur Maltravers; only Monsieur?” repeated Madame de Ventadour.