St. Anthony himself was
not assailed by more temptations. Now he was saved from the lustre of
a blonde face by the superior richness of a blonde lace. He would
infallibly have been ravished by that ringlet had he not been nearly
reduced by that ring which sparkled on a hand like the white cat's. He
was only preserved from his unprecedented dangers by their number. No,
no! He had a better talisman: his conceit.
'Ah, Lady Balmont!' said his Grace to a smiling artist, who offered him
one of her own drawings of a Swiss cottage, 'for me to be a tenant, it
must be love and a cottage!'
'What! am I to buy this ring, Mrs. Abercroft? _Point de jour_. Oh!
dreadful phrase! Allow me to present it to you, for you are the only one
whom such words cannot make tremble.'
'This chain, Lady Jemima, for my glass! It will teach me where to direct
it.'
'Ah! Mrs. Fitzroy!' and he covered his face with affected fear. 'Can you
forgive me? Your beautiful note has been half an hour unanswered. The
box is yours for Tuesday.'
He tried to pass the next stall with a smiling bow, but he could not
escape. It was Lady de Courcy, a dowager, but not old.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70