The dinner bell sounded. Could he meet them? Ay! meet them! Defy them!
Insult them! He descended to the dining-room. He heard her musical
and liquid voice; the scowl upon his brow melted away; but, gloomy and
silent, he took his seat, and gloomy and silent he remained. Little he
spoke, and that little was scarcely courteous. But Arundel had enough to
say. He was the hero of the party. Well he might be. Story after
story of old maids and young widows, sturdy butchers and corrupt coal
merchants, sparkled away; but a faint smile was all the tribute of the
Duke, and a tribute that was seldom paid.
'You are not well!' said Miss Dacre to him, in a low voice.
'I believe I am,' answered he shortly.
'You do not seem quite so,' she replied, with an air of surprise.
'I believe I have got a headache,' he retorted with little more
cordiality. She did not again speak, but she was evidently annoyed.
CHAPTER IV.
_Bitter is Jealousy_
THERE certainly is a dark delight in being miserable, a sort of strange
satisfaction in being savage, which is uncommonly fascinating. One of
the greatest pests of philosophy is, that one can no longer be sullen,
and most sincerely do I regret it.
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