The poor woman cowered as she sat. Men had often enough sworn at her; but she recoiled from the roughness of this lover as if it hurt her. Her eyes were not languishing now, but startled—then slowly they grew dim and soft with tears.
Abel Newt looked at her, surprised and pleased.
“Kitty, you’re a woman still, and I like it. It’s so much the better. I don’t want a dragon or a machine. Come, girl, are you afraid?”
“Of what?”
“Of me—of the future—of any thing?”
The tone of his voice had a lingering music of the same kind as the lingering beauty in her face. It was a sensual, seductive sound.
“No, I am not afraid,” she answered, turning to him. “But, oh! my God! my God! if we were only both young again!”
She spoke with passionate hopelessness, and the tears dried in her eyes.
Later in the evening Mrs. Delilah Jones appeared at the French minister’s ball.
“Upon the whole,” said Mr. Ele to his partner, “I have never seen Mrs. Jones so superb as she is to-night.”