The society of Radstowe, all in new garments, appeared to Henrietta of
a dazzling brilliance, but she stood easily, holding her head high, as
though she were well used to this kind of glory. Looking round, she
saw Francis Sales leaning against a wall, talking to his partner and
smiling with unnecessary amiability. A flame of jealousy flickered
hotly through her body. How could he smile like that? Why did he not
come to her? And then, in the pride of her secret love, she remembered
that he dare not show his eagerness. They belonged to each other, they
were alone in their love, and all these people, talking, laughing,
fluttering fans, thinking themselves of immense importance, had no
real existence. He and she alone of all that company existed with a
fierceness that changed the sensuous dance-music into the cry of
essential passion.
Young men approached her and wrote their initials on her programme
which was already marked with little crosses against the numbers she
had promised to Francis Sales. Charles Batty, rather hot, anxious and
glowering, arrived too late. His angry disgust, his sense of
desertion, were beyond words. He stared at her. 'And my flowers,' he
demanded.
'Charles, don't shout.'
'Where are my flowers? I sent some--roses and lilies and maidenhair.
Where are they?'
'I haven't seen them.'
'Ah, I suppose you didn't like them, but the girl in the shop told me
they would be all right.
Pages:
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227