The captain shrugged over his clean abyss, where nothing was.
Yesterday their bank presented matronly proportions. But an importuned goddess reduces the most voluminous to bare stitches within a few winks of an eye.
Livia turned to a French gentleman of her court, M. de St. Ombre, and pursued a conversation. He was a stately cavalier of the Gallicized Frankish outlines, ready, but grave in his bearing, grave in his delivery, trimly moustached, with a Guise beard.
His profound internal question relating to this un-English beauty of the British Isles:—had she no passion in her nature? was not convinced by her apparent insensibility to Fortune’s whips.
Sir Meeson Corby inserted a word of Bull French out of place from time to time.
As it might be necessary to lean on the little man for weapons of war, supposing Lord Fleetwood delayed his arrival yet another day, Livia was indulgent. She assisted him to think that he spoke the foreign tongue.
Mention of Lord Fleetwood set Sir Meeson harping again on his alarms, in consideration of the vagabond object of the young lord had roamed away with.
‘You forget that Russett has gypsy in him: Welsh! it’s about the same,’ said Livia. ‘He can take excellent care of himself and his purse.’
‘Countess, he is a good six days overdue.’
‘He will be in time for the ball at the Schloss.’