There were scores of pretty faces there--blondes and
brunettes--blue eyes and brown--and more spirit and animation, and, I
think, more grace too, in dance and talk, than the phlegmatic
affectation of modern days allows; and there were some bright eyes that,
not seeming to look, yet recognised, with a little thrill at the heart,
and a brighter flush, the brilliant, proud Devereux--so handsome, so
impulsive, so unfathomable--with his gipsy tint, and great enthusiastic
eyes, and strange melancholy, sub-acid smile. But to him the room was
lifeless, and the hour was dull, and the music but a noise and a jingle.
'I knew quite well she wasn't here, and she never cared for me, and
I--why should I trouble my head about her? She makes her cold an excuse.
Well, maybe yet she'll wish to see Dick Devereux, and I far away. No
matter. They've heard slanders of me, and believe them. Amen, say I. If
they're so light of faith, and false in friendship to cast me off for a
foul word or an idle story--curse it--I'm well rid of that false and
foolish friendship, and can repay their coldness and aversion with a
light heart, a bow, and a smile.
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