But then, of course, he is really quite out of place in
diplomacy. Since he can't exist on a marble pedestal or some Old
Master's canvas, he ought at least to be a poet or an artist--and so he
is at heart; not one, but both; and a dreamer of beautiful dreams, as
beautiful and noble as his own clear-cut face, which might be cold if it
were not for the eyes, and lips.
There were people about, and we spoke like mere acquaintances until I'd
led Raoul into the little boudoir which adjoins my dressing-room.
Then--well, we spoke no longer like mere acquaintances. That is enough
to say. And we had five minutes together, before I was obliged to send
him away, and go to dress for the second act.
The touch of Raoul's hands, and those lips of his that are not cold,
gave me strength to go through all that was yet to come. There's
something almost magical in the touch--just a little, little touch--of
the one we love best. For a moment we can forget everything else, even
if it were death itself waiting just round the corner. I've flirted with
more than one man, sometimes because I liked him and it amused me,--as
with Ivor Dundas,--sometimes because I had to win him for politic
reasons.
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