But where was he, the hero of our tale? Fencing? Craning? Hitting?
Missing? Is he over, or is he under? Has he killed, or is he killed? for
the last is but the chance of war, and pheasants have the pleasure
of sometimes seeing as gay birds as themselves with plumage quite as
shattered. But there is no danger of the noble countenance of the Duke
of St. James bearing to-day any evidence of the exploits of himself or
his companions. His Grace was in one of his sublime fits, and did not
rise. Luigi consoled himself for the bore of this protracted attendance
by diddling the page-in-waiting at dominos.
The Duke of St. James was in one of his sublime fits. He had commenced
by thinking of May Dacre, and he ended by thinking of himself. He was
under that delicious and dreamy excitement which we experience when the
image of a lovely and beloved object begins to mix itself up with our
own intense self-love. She was the heroine rather of an indefinite
reverie than of definite romance. Instead of his own image alone playing
about his fancy, her beautiful face and springing figure intruded their
exquisite presence.
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