What irony, thought the girl, as she curtseyed and left the royal the trap into which she had fallen!
Through those high-roofed, magnificent chambers, with their wonderful friezes, priceless paintings, and gilt furniture, she wandered on, acknowledging greetings on every hand, yet only mechanically, for her thoughts were far away from that scene of royal revelry. The atmosphere held her asphyxiated, the music jarred upon her ears, and the gossip she heard on every side was for her devoid of all interest.
One face alone arose before her amid that glittering throng, the face of the Englishman she had met so unexpectedly that morning—George Macbean.
And why? She asked herself that question, and yet to it could give no direct response. His frank honesty of countenance and his muscular English form attracted her, but when the suggestion crossed her mind that she loved him, she laughed such an idea to scorn. They were comparative strangers, and she prided herself on being one who had never fallen into the error of affection at first sight as so many other girls did. Her character, it was true, was too well balanced for that.
Yet the truth remained that all her thoughts that day had been of him.
Both the Baron Riboulet, the French Ambassador, and old Prince Demidoff had grasped her hand and paid their compliments, while the princess managed to whisper in French, “I never saw you looking so well as to-night, my dear. That gown suits you admirably, and is by far the most striking here. One cannot wonder at Count Dubard’s choice. He has always been known in Paris as a connoisseur of beauty, you know,” and Her Excellency the Princess showed her yellow teeth in a broad grin at what she meant as humour.
Wherever Mary went, half a dozen of the younger men followed in her train like bees about their queen. She laughed with them, made humorous remarks, and chatted to them with that air of bright, irresponsible gaiety by which she so cleverly concealed the heavy burden of grief and disappointment that filled her heart. In Roman society the younger men vied with each other to become friends of Mary Morini, hence at such functions as these they liked to be seen in her company, laughing or dancing with her.
The young Duke di Forano, who had recently returned from Paris, where he had acted as first secretary of the Italian Embassy, had taken her in to supper in the huge winter garden where the tiny tables were set beneath the palms, and they had been waited upon by the royal servants. In the dim light of the Chinese lanterns the duke, an old friend, had taken her hand in his; but she had withdrawn it in indignation, saying—
“You have no right to do that, now that I am engaged.”
“Ah yes! of course,” he exclaimed, with a word of apology, at once interested. “I heard something about it in Paris, but quite forgot. Jules Dubard is the lucky fellow—isn’t he?”