Honoria had almost ceased to converse with us.  It was painful to her to talk with any person.  She followed the Duke with her eyes.  When, by some delicate allusion or attention, he let her perceive that she was in his thoughts, a mantling color overspread her features, and then gave way to paleness, and a manner which attracted universal remark.  It was then Honoria abdicated that throne of conventional purity which hitherto she had held undisputed.  Women who were plain in her presence outshone Honoria, by meeting this ducal apparition, that called itself Rosecouleur,—­and which might have been, for aught they knew, a fume of the Infernal, shaped to deceive us all,—­with calm and haughty propriety.

The sensation did not subside.  The music of the waltz invited a renewal of that intoxicating whirl which isolates friends and lovers, in whispering and sighing pairs, in the midst of a great assemblage.  All the world looked on, when Honoria Denslow placed her hand upon the shoulder of the Duke of Rosecouleur, and the noble and beautiful forms began silently and smoothly turning, with a dream-like motion.  Soon she lifted her lovely eyes and steadied their rays upon his.  She leaned wholly upon his arm, and the gloved hands completed the magnetic circle.  At the close of the first waltz, she rested a moment, leaning upon his shoulder, and his hand still held hers,—­a liberty often assumed and permitted, but not to the nobles and the monarchs of society.  She fell farther, and her ideal beauty faded into a sensuous.

Honoria was lost.  Dalton saw it.  We retired together to a room apart.  He was dispirited; called for and drank rapidly a bottle of Champagne;—­it was insufficient.

“De Vere,” said he, “affairs go badly.”

“Explain.”

“This cursed thing that people call a duke—­it kills me.”

“I saw.”

“Of course you did;—­the world saw; the servants saw.  Honoria has fallen to-night.  I shall transfer my allegiance.”

“And Denslow?”

“A born sycophant;—­he thinks it natural that his wife should love a duke, and a duke love his wife.”

“So would you, if you were any other than you are.”

“Faugh! it is human nature.”

“Not so; would you not as soon strangle this Rosecouleur for making love to your wife in public, as you would another man?”

“Rather.”

“Pooh!  I give you up.  If you had simply said, ‘Yes,’ it would have satisfied me.”

Dalton seemed perplexed.  He called a servant and sent him with an order for Nalson, the usher, to come instantly to him.

Nalson appeared, with his white gloves and mahogany face.

“Nalson, you were a servant of the Duke in England?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Is the person now in the rooms the Duke of Rosecouleur?”

“I have not seen him, Sir.”

“Go immediately, study the man well,—­do you hear?—­and come to me.  Let no one know your purpose.”