only flayed, he is doomed calmly to contemplate the hideous image of himself burning on the face of her he loves; making beauty ghastly.  In vain—­for he is two hours behind the dinner-bell—­Mr. Burley, the butler, bows and offers him viands and wine.  How can he eat, with the phantom of Rose there, covering her head, shuddering, loathing him?  But he must appear in company:  he has a coat, if he has not a skin.  Let him button it, and march boldly.  Our comedies are frequently youth’s tragedies.  We will smile reservedly as we mark Mr. Evan Harrington step into the midst of the fair society of the drawing-room.  Rose is at the piano.  Near her reclines the Countess de Saldar, fanning the languors from her cheeks, with a word for the diplomatist on one side, a whisper for Sir John Loring on the other, and a very quiet pair of eyes for everybody.  Providence, she is sure, is keeping watch to shield her sensitive cuticle; and she is besides exquisitely happy, albeit outwardly composed:  for, in the room sits his Grace the Duke of Belfield, newly arrived.  He is talking to her sister, Mrs. Strike, masked by Miss Current.  The wife of the Major has come this afternoon, and Andrew Cogglesby, who brought her, chats with Lady Jocelyn like an old acquaintance.

Evan shakes the hands of his relatives.  Who shall turn over the leaves of the fair singer’s music-book?  The young men are in the billiard-room:  Drummond is engaged in converse with a lovely person with Giorgione hair, which the Countess intensely admires, and asks the diplomatist whether he can see a soupcon of red in it.  The diplomatist’s taste is for dark beauties:  the Countess is dark.

Evan must do duty by Rose.  And now occurred a phenomenon in him.  Instead of shunning her, as he had rejoiced in doing after the Jocasta scene, ere she had wounded him, he had a curious desire to compare her with the phantom that had dispossessed her in his fancy.  Unconsciously when he saw her, he transferred the shame that devoured him, from him to her, and gazed coldly at the face that could twist to that despicable contortion.

He was in love, and subtle love will not be shamed and smothered.  Love sits, we must remember, mostly in two hearts at the same time, and the one that is first stirred by any of the passions to wakefulness, may know more of the other than its owner.  Why had Rose covered her head and shuddered?  Would the girl feel that for a friend?  If his pride suffered, love was not so downcast; but to avenge him for the cold she had cast on him, it could be critical, and Evan made his bearing to her a blank.