As my glance fastens more directly upon Duke, I see he too is looking unlike himself. There is a dark, almost fierce expression in his eyes; his lips are compressed. A slight movement of the thin nostrils as he draws his breath tells me he is evidently suppressing some strong emotion.
Her ladyship, exquisitely lovely in deep cream-colored silk, with something scarlet in her dark hair, is nestling among the crimson cushions of the lounge, and does not deign to raise herself as we approach. Her eyes are a degree larger, more languid than usual; her complexion, always good, is perfect in this soft light. Her fan is in my husband's hands.
It is impossible for me, without being guilty of positive rudeness, to turn and leave them without a word. I stand, therefore, silent, a pale, slight child, next to her, in all her supercilious beauty—with little of the woman about me except my trailing velvet and golden ring, and glittering, gleaming jewels.
"Are you having a good time, Mrs. Carrington?" asks Lady Blanche, sweetly.
"Very, thank you," with extreme coldness. "I had no idea I could enjoy anything so much."
"You look happy," with increased amiability and a soft, indulgent smile, such as one would use toward an excitable child. "I suppose you still find pleasure in dancing?"
"Yes. I believe I have a good many years yet to run before I must, for decency's sake, declare myself tired of it."
"Until you are quite an old married woman like me? Yes," with much complacency. "You are fortunate in your partner. All the world acknowledges Sir Mark to be above praise—in the dancing line. Even I"—with a sudden and to me utterly inexplicable glance at the gentleman in question—"can remember how desirable he used to be."
Dead silence, and a slight bow on the part of Sir Mark.
"Indeed?" say I, turning a smile of exaggerated friendliness upon him. "Then consider how doubly good it is of him to waste so much of his time upon a mere novice like me."