"Senator D——, perhaps," suggested Denslow, whose ideas, like his person, aspired to the senatorial.
"Dumas," hinted Adonaïs, an admirer of French literature. "I heard he was expected."
"No," I answered, "but certainly in appearance the most noticeable man living. Let us go out and be introduced."
"Perhaps," said Lethal, "it is the d——."
All rose instantly at the idea, and we went forward, urged by irresistible curiosity.
As we drew near the stranger, who was conversing with Honoria and Dalton, a shudder went through me. It was a thrill of the universal Boswell; I seemed to feel the presence of "the most aristocratic man of the age."
Honoria introduced me. "My Lord Duke, allow me to present my friend, Mr.
De Vere; Mr. De Vere, the Duke of Rosecouleur."
Was I, then, face to face with, nay, touching the hand of a highness,—and that highness the monarch of the ton? And is this a ducal hand, white as the albescent down of the eider-duck, which presses mine with a tender touch, so haughty and so delicately graduated to my standing as "friend" of the exquisite Honoria? It was too much; I could have wept; my senses rather failed.
Dalton fell short of himself; for, though his head stooped to none, unless conventionally, the sudden and unaccountable presence of the Duke of Rosecouleur annoyed and perplexed him. His own sovereignty was threatened.
Lethal stiffened himself to the ordeal of an introduction; the affair seemed to exasperate him. Denslow alone, of the men, was in his element. Pompous and soft, he "cottoned" to the grandeur with the instinct of a born satellite, and his eyes grew brighter, his body more shining and rotund, his back more concave. His bon-vivant tones, jolly and conventional, sounded a pure barytone to the clear soprano of Honoria, in the harmony of an obsequious welcome.