He had counted on a special look from those blue eyes,—a look that would recall the last time they had stood together, in a world of beauty created for them alone.
He heard Mrs. Nixon say in her grave, sonorous tones:—
“Your work is charming!”
And yet he had not caught her eye.
Betsy had said—fond, foolish Betsy! who could suppose that she would be so imaginative, Betsy had said—and the expression and manner with which Rosalie now turned to him at last, gave the lie direct to all those implications.
“Good-evening, Mr. Bruce. How tanned you are!” the girl said, raising her eyebrows with a little smile, as if they had met yesterday on Tremont Street.
Then she turned to meet a couple of young men who pressed forward under the guidance of Mr. Beebe.
“These gentlemen are anxious to meet you, Miss Vincent, and say some pretty things. Mr. Ames and Mr. Foster, Miss Vincent, and Mr. Derwent, too.”
Mr. Derwent inclined his head, his hand hanging by his side, and Rosalie’s tightened on his arm as she turned from Irving to meet the somewhat embarrassed expressions of enthusiasm from the young men, who seemed to find Rosalie’s immobile and white-mustached companion somewhat of a bar to their loquacity.