Jack growled something and made his way into the room.
For a moment he could see nothing of Lady Bell, then as she came out of the fernery and advanced toward him her dark eyes flashing, or rather gleaming softly, with a faint, delicious color mantling on her cheeks, he felt almost the same shock of surprise which had fallen on Una.
He had scarcely noticed her the other night, had scarcely, indeed, seen her, and he now saw, as it were for the first time, her beauty, set off and heightened by the aid of one of Worth’s happiest dresses, and Emanuel’s diamonds. In spite of himself he was dazzled, and his frank eyes showed that he was.
And Lady Bell? Well, though his face had scarcely left her mind’s eye since she had seen it, she was not disappointed.
Notwithstanding the rather bored and surly—not to say ferocious expression which set upon it—she thought him handsomer than even she had remembered him.
“This is very kind of you, Mr. Newcombe,” she said speaking first, for Jack had contented himself with bowing over her hand.
“Kind?” said Jack, in his straightforward way.
Lady Bell hesitated, and for the first time, perhaps, in her life, smiled shyly.
“I heard—they tell me—that it is as difficult to get Mr. Newcombe to a dance as a prince of the blood royal.”
“It isn’t much in my way,” said Jack, quietly; “I am not a dancing man—that is, I don’t care for it.”