“A glorious devil,” quoted a gentleman behind Vivienne, who was staring at Colonel Armour and keeping up a series of remarks unheard by any one but the friend into whose ears they were confided; “large in heart and brain,” he went on, “that did love beauty only.”
“Devil indeed,” murmured the other; “no saint would live on as he does. He’s outlasted all his generation. He reminds me of an old rat in one of my father’s vessels plying between here and Boston. Nothing would kill him, not even a change of cargo to tar paper and paraffin oil, which knocked off all the others. This old fellow wouldn’t give in and never would be caught, till one day a sailor found him behind a box in the forecastle, his head nodding till finally he fell over dead.”
“No such luck with Holy Jim,” said the other with a suppressed laugh. “He’s good for twenty years yet. Have you heard his latest?” and he began to retail a morsel of savory scandal.
Sometime after midnight the last presentation was made; Lord and Lady Vaulabel were escorted to the ballroom, and the official quadrille was formed. A little later, when some members of the vice-regal party had seated themselves in a number of high-backed chairs provided for them, Lord Vaulabel with one of his quick, eager gestures that made him seem more like a French than an English nobleman, bent over his wife and said in a low voice, “Winifred, you will not forget?”
She smiled at him. “No, I will not.” Then as he left her she turned and spoke to the lieutenant-governor, who immediately started on what seemed to be an aimless wandering about the ballroom and the adjoining corridor. Presently he came upon the person that he was seeking, as she stood with upturned face looking at the paintings in the legislative chamber.
“Mr. Armour,” he said politely to her companion, “will you surrender Miss Delavigne to my charge for a while? Lady Vaulabel expresses a wish to see her.”
Very willingly Mr. Armour saw his fiancée led away and sauntered closely enough behind her to see her raise her dark eyes in reverence to the face of one of the most distinguished women in the British Empire.
Lady Vaulabel would not permit a second courtesy, and taking the girl’s hand seated her beside her own chair. Charmed with her sweetness, her kindness, her unmistakable air of distinction, and the affability of her manner, Vivienne gazed at her in admiration and in pleased surprise at the honor conferred upon her, an honor presently explained by a few words from Lady Vaulabel.
“Your ancestors were the Delavignes of Orléans, were they not?” she asked.
“Yes, your excellency, they were.”