‘Newport has a great deal of beautiful scenery,’ said Mary.
‘I have heard that it was celebrated for the beauty of its scenery and of its ladies,’ he answered; ‘but,’ he added, with a quick flash of his dark eye, ‘I never realised the fact before.’
The glance of the eye pointed and limited the compliment; at the same time there was a wary shrewdness in it: he was measuring how deeply his shaft had sunk, as he always instinctively measured the person he talked with.
Mary had been told of her beauty since her childhood, notwithstanding her mother had assayed all that transparent, respectable hoaxing by which discreet mothers endeavour to blind their daughters to the real facts in such cases; but in her own calm, balanced mind she had accepted what she was so often told as a quiet verity, and therefore she neither fluttered nor blushed on this occasion; but regarded her auditor with a pleased attention, as one who was saying obliging things.
‘Cool,’ he thought to himself. ‘Hum—a little rustic belle, I suppose, well aware of her own value; rather piquante, upon my word.’
‘Shall we walk in the garden?’ he said; ‘the evening is so beautiful.’
They passed out the door, and began promenading the long walk. At the bottom of the alley he stopped, and, turning, looked up the vista of box, ending in the brilliantly-lighted rooms, where gentlemen with powdered heads, lace ruffles, and glittering knee-buckles were handing ladies in stiff brocades, whose towering heads were shaded by ostrich feathers and sparkling with gems.
‘Quite court-like, on my word,’ he said: ‘tell me, do you often have such brilliant entertainments as these?’
‘I suppose they do,’ said Mary; ‘I never was at one before, but I sometimes hear of them.’
‘And you do not attend?’ said the gentleman, with an accent which made the inquiry a marked compliment.