Their hands were clasped. Both hearts were too full for words. They, who had loved one another for so many years, were now together for the last time.
A deep and bitter sigh escaped Chisholm. He was going to this ball, always one of the most brilliant entertainments in London—for the duchess was a political hostess and frequently entertained “for the Party”—to drink the cup of pleasure to the dregs, because on the morrow his place in English officialdom would be empty.
Chapter Twelve.
Is Distinctly Enigmatical.
Distinction among women is rapidly becoming a lost art. Woman nowadays is nothing if not modern in her views. After her presentation, her natural enthusiasm and charming high spirits usually cause her to take a too tolerant and rosy view of life, with the result that she degenerates into being merely smart. She becomes absorbed in Man and Millinery. Dress is her keynote. A lady’s luggage has during the past ten years assumed alarming proportions, and a fashionable woman rushes eagerly to a house-party for the express purpose of airing the latest triumphs of Paquin or Lentheric. She is expected to make as many alterations in her costume as a quick-change artiste at the music-halls. In old times a tailor-made gown was worn for breakfast; but now a smart gown is put on for the morning meal, afterwards to be changed for a walking-costume or a suit for motor-driving. Luncheon demands another dainty gown, and tea brings out that luxurious and poetical garment, the tea-gown. At quite a small party this is sometimes retained for dinner, but for a big affair a magnificent dress is donned; and the same gown, whether designed for the morning or the evening, must never be worn twice.
Except when she was entertaining for a political purpose, the Duchess of Penarth’s functions were characterised by an exclusiveness which belonged more to the mid-Victorian period than to latter-day London. Her Grace was a well-known hostess, and as her house-parties in Derbyshire usually included a member of the royal family, her circle of guests was a small and exceedingly smart one. If any outsider was admitted to her balls, he or she was always a brilliant person. Every season, of course, sees a new recruit to the ranks of these distinguished strangers—the latest empire-builder, the newest millionaire, or the most recently discovered society beauty. Dudley Chisholm had several times accompanied Claudia to balls at Penarth House, and knew well that everything was most magnificently done.
The carriage drew up in the long line that slowly filed into the old-fashioned courtyard, there to set down the guests. As Dudley looked out upon the lights of Piccadilly the rhymer’s jingle recurred to him:
Oh! the tales that you could tell,
Piccadilly.
(Fit for Heaven, fit for hell),
Piccadilly.
Of the folk who buy and sell,
Of the merry marriage bell,
Of the birthday, of the knell,
Of the palace, of the cell,
Of the beldame, and the belle,
Of the rest of them who fell,
Piccadilly.