Recalled to my dignity as a host by this impertinence, I believe I put some restraint on my eloquence, and I now addressed myself to do the honors of the table. Alas, my attentions seldom strayed beyond my lovely neighbor, and I firmly believed that none could remark the rapture with which I gazed on her, or as much as suspected that I had never quitted the grasp of her hand from the moment we sat down.
“I suspect you 'd better let Mademoiselle dance the cotillon with the Count Vauglas,” whispered Eccles in my ear.
“And why, sir?” rejoined I, half fiercely.
“I think you might guess,” said he, with a smile; “at least, you could if you were to get up.”
“And would she—would Pauline—I mean, would Mademoiselle Delorme—approve of this arrangement?”
“No, Monsieur Digby, not if it did not come from you. We shall sit in the shade yonder for half an hour or so, and then, when you are rested, we 'll join the cotillon.”
“Get that boy off to bed, Eccles,” said Cleremont, who did not scruple to utter the words aloud.
I started up to make an indignant rejoinder; some fierce insult was on my lips; but passion and excitement and wine mastered me, and I sank back on my seat overcome and senseless.