Lady O'Moy's entrance of the ballroom produced the effect to which
custom had by now inured her. Soon she found herself the centre of
assiduous attentions. Cavalrymen in blue, riflemen in green,
scarlet officers of the line regiments, winged light-infantrymen,
rakishly pelissed, gold-braided hussars and all the smaller fry of
court and camp fluttered insistently about her. It was no novelty
to her who had been the recipient of such homage since her first
ball five years ago at Dublin Castle, and yet the wine of it had
gone ever to her head a little. But to-night she was rather pale
and listless, her rose-petal loveliness emphasised thereby perhaps.
An unusual air of indifference hung about her as she stood there
amid this throng of martial jostlers who craved the honour of a
dance and at whom she smiled a thought mechanically over the top
of her slowly moving fan.
The first quadrille impended, and the senior service had carried off
the prize from under the noses of the landsmen. As she was swept
away by Captain Glennie, she came face to face with Tremayne, who
was passing with Sylvia on his arm. She stopped and tapped his arm
with her fan.
"You haven't asked to dance, Ned," she reproached him.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129