"Twenty-one? You just look it, you blooming boy. Now tell me my age, Adonis!—Twenty—what?"
Richard had given the lady twenty-five years.
She laughed violently. "You don't pay compliments, Dick. Best to be honest; guess again. You don't like to? Not twenty-five, or twenty-four, or twenty-three, or—see how he begins to start!—twenty-two. Just twenty-one, my dear. I think, my birthday's somewhere in next month. Why, look at me, close—closer. Have I a wrinkle?"
"And when, in heaven's name!" ... he stopped short.
"I understand you. When did I commence for to live? At the ripe age of sixteen I saw a nobleman in despair because of my beauty. He vowed he'd die. I didn't want him to do that. So to save the poor man for his family, I ran away with him, and I dare say they didn't appreciate the sacrifice, and he soon forgot to, if he ever did. It's the way of the world!"
Richard seized some dead champagne, emptied the bottle into a tumbler, and drank it off.
John footman entered to clear the table, and they were left without further interruption.
"Bella! Bella!" Richard uttered in a deep sad voice, as he walked the room.
She leaned on her arm, her hair crushed against a reddened cheek, her eyes half-shut and dreamy.
"Bella!" he dropped beside her. "You are unhappy."