splendid. His coat of rich cut velvet was covered with embroidery and sparkled with a myriad of chased-gold buttons; his lace ruffles at breast and wrist were point-de-Venise, his fingers were brilliant with rings, and his powdered hair waved from his clear, pale temples like a stream of silver dust. He looked like a courtier of the days of Louis XIV, dressed for a royal reception.
And how did Beatrice compare with this brilliant star of fashion—this thunderbolt of war and prince of modern wits, as the muse in powdered hair and ruffles had characterized him? Poor Beatrice was quite eclipsed by her cavalier. Her simple, unassuming dress of pearl color, looped back with plain ribbon and without a single flower or any ornament whatever, looked strangely out of place thrown in contrast with the brilliant silks and velvets and gold buttons and diamonds of her companion; her modest, tender face and drooping head, with its unpretending coiffure, looked quite insignificant beside the bold, defiant countenance of Mr. Effingham, which returned look for look and gaze for gaze, with an insulting nonchalance and easy hauteur. We know how reluctantly Beatrice had come thither—rather how bitter a trial it was to her—and we may understand why she looked pale and troubled and—spite of the fact that she had just encountered the gaze of a curious and laughing audience without any emotion—now felt her spirit die within her. It was not because she shrunk from comment half so much as from the fact that each moment she expected to see opposite to her the cold, pale face and sick, reproachful eyes of Clare Lee—of Clare, who had thrown aside the prejudices of class, even forgot the jealousy of a wronged and wretched rival, to press in her arms the rival who had made all her woe, and that rival a common actress. It was the dread of her eye which made poor Beatrice tremble—this alone made her lip quiver and her brow droop.
