Only at one of the state balls could have been seen such a display of diamonds, and very soon after the ball commenced it was declared by the experienced that it would prove the event of the season.
It was not until the fourth dance on the list had been reached that the marquis put in an appearance. Lady Grace, magnificently dressed—robed, one might almost say—had been questioned concerning his absence by the throng that surrounded her, but had shaken her head with a charming smile as she answered:
“He has promised to come into the room, if only for a few minutes, but I don’t know when he will come.”
She was, by right of her beauty and position, the queen of the brilliant assemblage, and she reigned in truly queenly fashion. Lord Cecil, moving about as host during his uncle’s absence, glanced toward her now and again, and said to himself that if he needs must choose a mate, he could not have chosen a more beautiful or more splendid one. But he sighed as he made the admission, and there rose before him the vision of Doris’ ivory-pale face, with its wealth of dark hair and witching blue eyes; and he would have given half that remained of his life to be sitting at her feet once more—only once more!
He was roused from one of these fits of reverie by a subdued murmur of interest and curiosity, and, looking up, saw the tall, thin figure of the marquis entering the room at one of the doors leading from his private apartments.
The clean-cut face was deadly pale, but the dark eyes shone with a hard, steel-like brilliance, and the thin, cruel lips wore a reflection of a smile as he came forward and greeted those near to him.
There was no vulgar pushing and crowding, but somehow, in an impalpable kind of way, a circle gathered round him, and then the marquis of old, or a shadow and semblance of him, shone forth. The polished wit, like a rapier long disused, leaped from its scabbard and set the group admiring and laughing as of yore. As he moved from one to the other, addressing his courtly flattery to the women and his biting cynicisms to the men, a feeling of wonder ran through the room.
“By Heaven!” exclaimed an old man, who remembered him in years gone by, “it is like a resurrection! It is like going back a quarter of a century! That is the kind of wit we were accustomed to, sir! Look at him, and compare him with the young fellows of the present day! And don’t tell me that we haven’t degenerated!”
Lord Cecil stood a little apart, looking on at the success which the marquis was making, the enthusiasm which he was arousing, when he felt a hand softly touch his arm, and Spenser Churchill’s unctuous voice purred in his ear.
“Do you see the dear marquis, Cecil? Wonderful, isn’t it? Quite like what he used to be, I assure you! Remarkable man. Really, it fills me with admiration and—er—astonishment. Did you hear that brilliant repartee of his at which they are all laughing?”