All the world
looked on, when Honoria Denslow placed her hand upon the shoulder of the
Duke of Rosecouleur, and the noble and beautiful forms began silently and
smoothly turning, with a dream-like motion. Soon she lifted her lovely
eyes and steadied their rays upon his. She leaned wholly upon his arm, and
the gloved hands completed the magnetic circle. At the close of the first
waltz, she rested a moment, leaning upon his shoulder, and his hand still
held hers,--a liberty often assumed and permitted, but not to the nobles
and the monarchs of society. She fell farther, and her ideal beauty faded
into a sensuous.
Honoria was lost. Dalton saw it. We retired together to a room apart. He
was dispirited; called for and drank rapidly a bottle of Champagne;--it
was insufficient.
"De Vere," said he, "affairs go badly."
"Explain."
"This cursed thing that people call a duke--it kills me."
"I saw."
"Of course you did;--the world saw; the servants saw. Honoria has fallen
to-night. I shall transfer my allegiance."
"And Denslow?"
"A born sycophant;--he thinks it natural that his wife should love a duke,
and a duke love his wife."
"So would you, if you were any other than you are."
"Faugh! it is human nature."
"Not so; would you not as soon strangle this Rosecouleur for making love
to your wife in public, as you would another man?"
"Rather.
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