Dalton had recovered his courage and natural haughtiness. The tone
of his voice, rich, tender, and delicately expressive, did not change.
"Honoria, you sent for _me_; and the Duke wishes to see the pictures. The
air of the gallery will relieve your faintness."
He offered his arm, which she, rising mechanically, accepted. A deep blush
crimsoned her features, at the allusion to her weakness. Several of the
guests moved after us, as we passed into the gallery. The Duke's shadow,
Reve de Noir, following last, closed the ivory doors. We passed through
the gallery,--where pyramids of sunny fruits, in baskets of fine
porcelain, stood relieved by gold and silver services for wine and coffee,
disposed on the tables,--and thence entered another and smaller room,
devoid of ornament, but the crimson tapestried walls were covered with
works or copies of the great masters of Italy.
Opposite the entrance there was a picture of a woman seated on a throne,
behind which stood a demon whispering in her ear and pointing to a
handsome youth in the circle of the courtiers. The design and color were
in the style of Correggio. Denslow stood close behind me. In advance were
Honoria, Dalton, and the Duke, whose conversation was addressed
alternately to her and Dalton. The lights of the gallery burst forth in
their full refulgence as we approached the picture.
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