“No one but Madame de Clairville.”
“Only l’amie intime,” said Connal, “the bosom friend.”
“How will Dora feel?—How will it be with us both?” thought Ormond, as he followed the light step of the husband.
“Entrez!—Entrez toujours.”
Ormond stopped at the threshold, absolutely dazzled by the brilliancy of Dora’s beauty, her face, her figure, her air, so infinitely improved, so fashioned!
“Dora!—Ah! Madame de Connal,” cried Ormond.
No French actor could have done it better than nature did it for him.
Dora gave one glance at Ormond—pleasure, joy, sparkled in her eyes; then leaning on the lady who stood beside her, almost sinking, Dora sighed, and exclaimed, “Ah! Harry Ormond!”
The husband vanished.
“Ah ciel!” said l’amie intime, looking towards Ormond.