His was that happy
disposition which finds Nature at large, including men, as precisely there
for his amusement. He relished, never failed to relish, the works of God.
But then he had perfect health. Mrs. Devereux was something of a grandee,
though not quite so much of one as she suspected. Her white hair towered;
she wore black velvet and diamonds. Mrs. Wilmot was very much of a pretty
woman, and knew to the turn of a hair how much. She had the air of a
spoiled child, which became her; was golden and rosy; could pout; had dark
blue eyes, which she could cloud at will, and fill, as we know, with
tears. She excelled in pathetic silences, to which her parted lips gave an
air of being breathless. She was beautifully dressed in cloudy, filmy
things, and had a soft, slight, drooping figure. Innocence was her
_forte_: her rings were superb.
One odd thing was noticeable, and noticed intensely by Chevenix, that
Ingram hardly ate anything, though he pretended to a hearty meal. It came,
Chevenix saw, to dry toast and three glasses of wine, practically. But he
made great play with knife and fork, and talked incessantly. He revealed
himself at every turn of his monologue--for it came to be a monologue--as
one of those men whose motives are so transparently reasonable to
themselves that they need never be at the trouble to explain or defend any
act of theirs.
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