“Why the little chap must be the infant prodigy! Pity he’s so beastly red!”
“Red, Delaval! Why he’s exactly like Dresden China!” she replies, with intense mortification.
He gives a forced laugh. Then he pushes his plate away, with the devilled kidneys untouched, for he has no appetite. And leaning back in his chair, looks at his wife.
And he comes to the conclusion that he ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself.
There she is, facing him. Could any creature of mortal mould be sweeter, lovelier, purer, more adorable?
These are two little words that carry more meaning in them than all the long, grandiose phrases in the Queen’s English. These two little words, indefinite as they seem, show exactly what a man’s mind is when it oscillates ’twixt right and wrong. Zai is undeniably charming, but she is not—la Blonde aux yeux noir!
She lacks the power to inflame the heart of the million. Her soft, dove-like eyes, cannot burn into men’s brains and souls like the dangerous but glorious black ones of Marguerite Ange!
“What piece did you see last night, Delaval?”
It is a poser. For one moment Lord Delaval, with the impatience and dislike of being catechised, which is natural to him, has a mind to speak the truth, and tell his wife that this morning he is not up to small talk. But he thinks better of it, and is equal to the occasion.