He was a thin, middle-aged man, with a curious,
transparent look in his face--something crystalline that was nearly
beautiful.
The Duchess was swarthy and masterful, very intelligent and /grande
dame/. Vivacity was easy to her. People said she had been a good hostess
in her cradle, and that she had presided over the ceremony of her own
baptism in a most autocratic and successful manner. It was quite likely.
After a word with the Duke, Lady Holme went slowly towards the ballroom
with her husband. She did not mean to dance, and began to refuse the
requests of would-be partners with charming protestations of fatigue.
Lord Holme was scanning the ballroom with his big brown eyes.
"Are you going to dance, Fritz?" asked Lady Holme, nodding to Robin
Pierce, whom she had just seen standing at a little distance with Rupert
Carey.
The latter had not seen her yet, but as Robin returned her nod he looked
hastily round.
"Yes, I promised Miss Schley to struggle through a waltz with her. Wonder
if she's dancin'?"
Lady Holme bowed, a little ostentatiously, to Rupert Carey. Her husband
saw it and began at once to look pugilistic. He could not say anything,
for at this moment two or three men strolled up to speak to Lady Holme.
While she was talking to them, Pimpernel Schley came in sight waltzing
with Mr. Laycock, one of those abnormally thin, narrow-featured, smart
men, with bold, inexpressive ayes, in whom London abounds.
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