The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 320: what you’re looking at

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

THE MASKED BALL 287 decorated landings, and still no lady accosted him. Half an hour had now elapsed, and he began to think that his plot had failed and that Editha would not come. In the depths of his soul he breathed, as it were, imprecations of annoyance and disappointment, and once more did he retrace his way to the principal drawing-room, where the throng of masques was thickest. Scarcely had he entered this magnificent sa- loon when a hand was laid gently upon his arm, and, stopping short, he found himself accosted by a lady, elegantly dressed in ball costume, but with her countenance concealed by a thick veil instead of amask. Glossy ringlets of purply black- ness peeped forth from beneath the thick folds of the veil, and as much as the eye could observe of the bare shoulders and arms seemed of that same rich olive-tinted complexion which characterized the warm and impassioned Editha. That it was his own wife who now accosted him the Earl of Curzon felt convinced at the very first glance, and a thrill of almost diabolic exultation penetrated to his heart as the passwords were whisperingly murmured in his ears. ‘“‘ Cavalier,’ said the veiled one, “‘ how is it that you have left your sword behind you? ”’ ‘“ Because,’ was Curzon’s prompt reply, and he also spoke whisperingly, so that there might be the less chance of the voice being recognized as his own instead of Lord Sack- ville’s, “‘ because I expected to meet a gentle lady here to- night, and that this expectation is now fulfilled, I have reason to congratulate myself.” Thus speaking he took the veiled lady’s hand, pressed it tenderly, and then drew it within his arm, not having the slightest doubt but that it was Editha who had thus become his companion, and toward whom he was practising so much deeply planned dissimulation. ‘“ How charming did you seem last night,’’ he continued to whisper, in that low, murmuring tone which suits, as it were, any male voice when giving utterance to the insidious language of sensuous passion. ‘“‘ It was happiness ineffable to be seated near you, to be permitted to gaze with ill-con- cealed admiration upon your charms, to catch the sunlight of your smiles and the beams of glory that flashed from your lustrous eyes.” “Oh, my lord,’’ responded the veiled one, likewise in a Gomicbooks (C(O)