she hated it almost with fury. She hated it now
and longed to use the whip, as the tamer in a menagerie uses it when one
of his beasts shows its teeth, or sulkily refuses to perform one of its
tricks.
Lord Holme went on calmly humming till the brougham stopped in the long
line of carriages that stretched away into the night from the great
portico of Arkell House.
People were already going in to supper when the Holmes arrived. The
Duke, upon whom a painful malady was beginning to creep, was bravely
welcoming his innumerable guests. He found it already impossible to go
unaided up and down stairs, and sat in a large armchair close to the
ball-room, with one of his pretty daughters near him, talking brightly,
and occasionally stealing wistful glances at the dancers, who were
visible through a high archway to his left. 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.
Lord Holme's under-jaw resumed its natural position, and he walked away
and was lost in the crowd, following the two dancers.
"Take me in to supper, Robin. I'm tired."
"This way. I
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