"You see," he said, with his calm, nonchalant voice—"you see, Beatrice, that this superb society, which you fancied you would find yourself so much out of place in, is not so very extraordinary after all. I think that I hazard nothing in saying that the second minuet was better than the first; you are, in deed, far more beautiful than that little dame whose ancestors, I believe, came over with the conqueror—Captain Smith."
And his cynical smile grew soft as he gazed on the tender, anxious face.
"It was not so dreadful an ordeal," he added, "though I must say we were the subject of much curiosity. I observed a group criticizing me, which pleased me. There was a fiery young gentleman in a long waistcoat, whom I offended by not returning his bow some months since—and I believe he was the orator of the occasion."
With which words, Mr. Effingham's lip curled.
"See! the very same group everybody, in fact, is gazing at us. Let them! you are lovelier than them all."
And Mr. Effingham raised his head proudly and looked around like an emperor. But Beatrice felt her heart die within her. That minuet had exhausted her strength; each moment she expected to see the pale cold face of Clare looking at her. Mr. Effingham observed how faint she was, and leaning over took a smelling bottle from the hand of the old dowager who had dropped the fan—bowing and smiling.
He presented it to Beatrice, but she put it away with the back of her hand, whereupon Mr. Effingham, with a second bow, restored it to the dowager, who, aghast at his impudence, beaten by his superior coolness, and overwhelmed with rage, took it without knowing what she did. Mr. Effingham there upon turned, smiling, to Beatrice again:
"There seems to be something going on yonder," he said, leaning on her chair, and directing the young girl's attention
