Lady Evelyn — page 121: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

114 "Ta Rose de Castile. ine black hair, its crimson crown—that pure pale face, those fathomless, luminous eyes of blue—ah! held the ~ world another fairer than this peerless Rose of Castile, this proud young patrician? And she might be his wife—his for the asking. Her heart was free—pure and proud as her face; something deeper and nobler than had ever been stirred there be- fore by woman’s beauty thrilled the heart of Vivian Tre- vannance now. ‘ The song ceased, died out, mournful and low as the last cadence of a funeral hymn. It had told the old story —a story of love and despair. With the last faint chord Trevannance bent over her. | “Thank you, Lady Evelyn,” he said, simply. “I will not soon forget this night or your song.” She rose with a light laugh, conscious that she had made a “sensation.” “I told you I sang seldom, senor. See what comes of it! They absolutely listen. Lady Clydesmore, will you show me that portfolio of Irish drawings you spoke of to-day? Who knows? Clontarf may be among them.” She moved gracefully away. Some one else came to the piano. The Countess Portici from her velvet sofa _ glared—yes, glared—across at her recusant lover as he followed and took his seat beside Lady Evelyn. “She sang for that fellow?’ murmured poor Ame- thyst, pathetically; “she never would sing for me. Look at him now! And this is his first meeting, and she looks as if she likes it. Confound him! he always had the as- surance of the dooce.” “She does like it,” La Comtesse responded, setting her pearly teeth. “Your marble beauty is only marble to dolts and bunglers. When the right hand touches it, the marble turns to flesh. Take care, my proud Castilian! the changing sea, the shifting quicksand, the veering wind, were never half so fickle as Vivian Trevannance.” “She speaks as if she had suffered from the fickleness,” thought his grace. “Why do the women all go down be- tore that fellow, | wonder? He’s well-looking, I dare say, and he’s acknowledged the best waltzer in London; but why should that make him irresistible? His praise is a woman’s crown; his commendation makes a belle =| comicbooks (ele)