'
Miss Dacre smiled. It was that wild, but rather wicked, gleam which
sometimes accompanies the indulgence of innocent malice. It seemed to
insinuate, 'I know you are piqued, and I enjoy it' But here her hand was
claimed for the waltz.
The young Duke remained musing.
'There she swims away! By heavens! unrivalled! And there is Lady Afy
and Burlington; grand, too. Yet there is something in this little Dacre
which touches my fancy more. What is it? I think it is her impudence.
That confounded scrape of Carlstein! I will cashier him to-morrow.
Confound his airs! I think I got out of it pretty well. To-night, on
the whole, has been a night of triumph; but if I do not waltz with the
little Dacre I will only vote myself an ovation. But see, here comes Sir
Lucius. Well! how fares my brother consul?'
'I do not like this rain. I have been hedging with Hounslow, having
previously set Bag at his worthy sire with a little information. We
shall have a perfect swamp, and then it will be strength against speed;
the old story. Damn the St. Leger. I am sick of it.'
'Pooh! pooh! think of the little Dacre!'
'Think of her, my dear fellow! I think of her too much.
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