“Who is that girl?” asked Mrs. Gower of Wemyss. “The daughter of our host?”
“A fine piece of flesh and blood,” said he.
“A fine piece of soul and spirit, or I am much mistaken,” retorted Mrs. Gower. “See, she positively dares to be bored, and the Earl is at his trumps at last. Really, I must have her at my house——”
“She’d be charmed to go, I’ve no doubt,” said Wemyss, with the gesture of a yawn. “But come, you surely don’t expect me to talk to one pretty woman of another? Tell me of yourself.”
“What is there to tell? Look at Baby Malgam’s violets—they are lovely.”
“The loveliness of violets,” said Wemyss, “is a fact established some years since, and which I am ready at all times and seasons to admit. Your own loveliness is a more inspiring subject.”
Mrs. Gower took absolutely no notice of this, but continued to watch Miss Farnum, as a vampire might study a torpedo. Wemyss was seeking a more gracious simile, when Charlie Townley came up and ousted him. “You are coming to Tony Duval’s supper at the ball, Mrs. Gower? Tony has got the Earl and Mrs. Malgam——”
“Oh, I am going—if it will not shock Mr. Wemyss here,” laughed Flossie. Wemyss cast at her one look of grave reproach, and bowed his own dismissal. To suppose that anything done by others could ruffle his own breeding—he, a polished patrician of the décadence! (The décadence was a favorite theme of Wemyss; perhaps it was pleasant to think that the society in which he had not been a success—at least, not a popular success—was rushing to its own failure.) Townley sat down by Mrs. Gower.
“But seriously, Charlie, don’t you think it may be a trifle risqué—this opera ball?”
“Qui n’a rien, ne risque rien,” said Charlie, bowing. Flossie laughed; he was one of her ancient train, discarded; a privileged character. In reality this ball, advertised to be improper, was very decent and very dreary, for the most part. And they could draw the curtain of their box, like peris in paradise overlooking gehenna, and turn aside from the multitude below.