Eugenia was fond of Mrs Dalrymple, and liked to hear her praised. “Yes,” she answered eagerly; “she is one of the sunniest people I know. But she carries it about with, her. Wherever she was, in Wareborough or anywhere, she would be cheerful and happy.”
“Ah, indeed. Yes, I should say she takes things pretty easily,” observed Captain Chancellor.
He spoke carelessly—his attention being in reality occupied with observing the pretty way in which Miss Laurence’s face and eyes brightened up when she was interested—and again something in his words or tone seemed to jar slightly on the girl’s sensitive perceptions, though almost before she realised the sensation, the charm of his manner or handsome face, or both together, had completely obliterated it.
And the evening passed very quickly to Eugenia, for the two or three dances in which Captain Chancellor was not her partner, yet seemed in some indescribable way pervaded by his presence. She watched him dancing with Miss Florence Harvey without a twinge of envy or misgiving, though it was evident that the young lady’s fascinations were all being played off for his edification; she did not even feel deserted when he spent at least a quarter of an hour in close conversation with Miss Eyrecourt, for his manner when he returned to her, or an instant’s glance when he caught her eye from another part of the room, satisfied her she was not forgotten,—seemed, indeed, intended tacitly to assure her that of his own free will he would not have spent any part of the evening away from her. She could hardly believe it; this strange new homage was bewildering even while delightful; she shrank from recognising it as a fact even to herself, and took herself to task for being “dreadfully conceited.” To her extreme inexperience and ignorance of the extent of her attractiveness, it seemed incredible that this “preux chevalier,” this nineteenth-century hero, as he appeared to her, should thus distinguish her, should seem so desirous of wearing her colours. And all sorts of pretty hazy dreams began to float across her imagination of enchanted ladies who, barely past the threshold of their windowless tower, had found the fairy prince already in waiting—sweet, silly old stories of “love at first sight” and such like, which, though charming enough in romance, she had hitherto been the first to make fun of as possible in real life.
Poor little girl, she was practically most ignorant; she knew less than nothing of the world and its ways; she had no idea of the danger there might be to her in what, to a thorough-going man of the world like Beauchamp Chancellor, was but an hour’s pleasant and allowable pastime. There was one sharp pair of eyes in the room, however, quite as sharp and probably less spiteful than if they had been light grey. What would have become of Eugenia’s vaguely beautiful visions had she overheard some part of a little conversation between her hero and Miss Eyrecourt towards the close of the evening! They were sitting near each other, and there was no one close enough to overhear the remarks that passed between them, which, however, were not many, for Beauchamp’s sulkiness had returned when he found himself beside Roma again, and she, though as imperturbably good-tempered as ever, was irritatingly impenitent.
Suddenly Miss Eyrecourt’s tone changed. “Beauchamp,” she said, and her voice told him he was intended to give his attention to what she had to say.
“Well, Miss Eyrecourt, I am waiting for your remarks,” he said, snappishly.
“Don’t be cross. It is so silly,” she began.
“Is that all you have to say to me, Roma?”
“No, it isn’t. This is what I want to say—you have danced several times with that little Miss Laurence, Beauchamp.” Captain Chancellor’s manner changed instantly. He became quite brisk and amiable. “She is extremely pretty.”