“Quelle fille!” he ejaculated with a graceful, old-world bow.
Everyone turned.
“Bladge!” came the unanimous cry. “Bladge!”
And even Gaveston felt that the spot-lime of interest had for a moment shifted from himself. He too turned, and saw, framed there in the noble Tudor doorway, an entrancing vision of loveliness, English and womanly at once, shimmering snake-like in sequins and a picture-hat. Was it—or was it not? Why, yes! It was none other than Lady Blandula Merris! And in their frenzied welcome the guests let their very aspic grow cold.
“Bladge!”—so that was her name among the glittering few whom she counted as her intimates.… He must remember that.
“BLADGE!” CAME THE UNANIMOUS CRY.
Although the daughter of one of our lesser-known marquesses, Lady Blandula was certainly the foremost figure of British womanhood, more wryly chic than any but the most anglicized Parisiennes, more sought after than any Royalty, more daring than any Bohemian, more photographed than any race-horse. No dance could boast itself a ball unless she graced it, no matinée charitable if she did not assist, nor were any theatricals amateur in which she did not perform. Slum missions and night-clubs were as one to her, for Nil Alienum Puto was the proud old Merris motto. Her beauty was rivalled only by her superb audacities. To those who knew her she seemed Virtue incarnate, but dark stories were whispered round the envious suburbs of her more than Paphian orgies.… As she sat down in the vacant place beside him, Gaveston ffoulis felt that at last he had met a woman whom he could respect.
Yet he felt oddly aware that, somewhere or somewhen, he had met her before.… All through the princely meal he watched her discreetly but closely—in what incarnation could it have been … or what æon?… When he was a King in Babylon…?