She smiled sorrowfully upon Dalton, and held out her hand in a languid
manner toward the Duke, and again they floated away upon the eddies of the
music. I followed them with eyes fixed in admiration. It was a vision of
the orgies of Olympus,--Zeus and Aphrodite circling to a theme of Chronos.
Had Honoria tasted of the Indian drug, the weed of paradise? Her eyes,
fixed upon the Duke's, shone like molten sapphires. A tress of chestnut
hair, escaping from the diamond coronet, sprang lovingly forward and
twined itself over her white shoulder and still fairer bosom. Tints like
flitting clouds, Titianic, the mystery and despair of art, disclosed to
the intelligent eye the feeling that mastered her spirit and her sense.
Admirable beauty! Unrivalled, unhappy! The Phidian idol of gold and ivory,
into which a demon had entered, overthrown, and the worshippers gazing on
it with a scorn unmixed with pity!
The sullen animal rage of battle is nothing to the livor, the burning
hatred of the drawing-room. Dalton, defeated, cast a glance of deadly
hostility on the Duke. Nor was it lost. While the waltz continued, for ten
minutes, he stood motionless. Fearing some untoward event, I came down and
took my place near him.
The Duke led Honoria to a sofa. But for his arm she would again have
fallen.
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