Florence, Dorothy, and her brother were also walking all three together. It is curious how people in misfortune cling to one another. They walked in silence; they had nothing to say. Presently they caught sight of two tall figures standing by a bush, on which was fixed a dying Chinese lantern. It is sometimes unfortunate to be tall, it betrays one’s identity; there was no mistaking the two figures, though it was so dark. Instinctively the three halted. And just then the expiring Chinese lantern did an unkind thing: it caught fire, and threw a lurid light upon a very pretty little scene. Ernest was bending forward towards Eva with all his soul in his expressive eyes, and begging for something. She was blushing sweetly, and looking down at the rose in her bosom; one hand, too, was raised, as though to unfasten it. The light for a moment was so strong that Dorothy afterwards remembered noticing how long Eva’s curling black eyelashes looked against her cheek. In another second it had flared out, and the darkness hid the sequel; but it may here be stated that when Eva reappeared in the ballroom she had lost her rose.
Charming and idyllic as this tableau très vivant of youth and beauty, obeying the primary law of nature, and making love to one another in a Garden of Eden illumined with Chinese lanterns, undoubtedly was, it did not seem to please any of the three spectators.
Jeremy actually forgot the presence of ladies, and went so far as to swear aloud. Nor did they reprove him; probably it gave their feelings some vicarious relief.
“I think that we had better be going home; it is late,” said Dorothy, after a pause. “Jeremy, will you go and order the carriage?”
Jeremy went.
Florence said nothing, but she took her fan in both her hands and bent it slowly, so that the ivory sticks snapped one by one with a succession of sharp reports. Then she threw it down, and set her heel upon it, and ground it into the path. There was something inexpressibly cruel about the way in which she crushed the pretty toy; the action seemed to be the appropriate and unconscious outcome of some mental process, and it is an odd proof of the excitement under which they were both labouring, that at the time the gentle-minded Dorothy saw nothing strange about it. At that moment the two girls were nearer each other than they had ever been before, or would ever be again; the common stroke of a misfortune for a moment welded their opposite natures into one. At that moment, too, they knew that they both loved the same man; before, they had guessed it, and had not liked each other the better for it, but now that was forgotten.
“I think, Florence,” said Dorothy, with a little tremor in her voice, “that we are ‘out of the running,’ as Jeremy says. Your sister is too beautiful for any woman to stand against her. He has fallen in love with her.”
“Yes,” said Florence, with a bitter laugh and a flash of her brown eyes; “his highness has thrown a handkerchief to a new favourite, and she has lost no time in picking it up. We always used to call her ‘the sultana;’” and she laughed again.
“Perhaps,” suggested Dorothy, “she only means to flirt with him a little; I hoped that Jeremy——”
“Jeremy! what chance has Jeremy against him? Ernest would make more way with a woman in two hours than Jeremy would in two years. We all love to be taken by storm, my dear. Do not deceive yourself. Flirt with him! she will love him wildly in a week. Who could help loving him?” she added, with a thrill of her rich voice.