It was a thrill of the universal Boswell; I
seemed to feel the presence of "the most aristocratic man of the age."
Honoria introduced me. "My Lord Duke, allow me to present my friend, Mr.
De Vere; Mr. De Vere, the Duke of Rosecouleur."
Was I, then, face to face with, nay, touching the hand of a highness,--and
that highness the monarch of the _ton_? And is this a ducal hand, white as
the albescent down of the eider-duck, which presses mine with a tender
touch, so haughty and so delicately graduated to my standing as "friend"
of the exquisite Honoria? It was too much; I could have wept; my senses
rather failed.
Dalton fell short of himself; for, though his head stooped to none, unless
conventionally, the sudden and unaccountable presence of the Duke of
Rosecouleur annoyed and perplexed him. His own sovereignty was threatened.
Lethal stiffened himself to the ordeal of an introduction; the affair
seemed to exasperate him. Denslow alone, of the men, was in his element.
Pompous and soft, he "cottoned" to the grandeur with the instinct of a
born satellite, and his eyes grew brighter, his body more shining and
rotund, his back more concave. His _bon-vivant_ tones, jolly and
conventional, sounded a pure barytone to the clear soprano of Honoria, in
the harmony of an obsequious welcome.
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