(I have not found a repartee for that
insidious question yet; that is why it rankles so.)
I had always heard that the English were a stiff people. There seemed to
be no stiffness at Lady Cray's; nor was there any facetiousness; it put
one at one's ease merely to look at them. They were mostly big, and
strong, and healthy, and quiet, and good-humored, with soft and
pleasantly-modulated voices. The large, well-lighted rooms were neither
hot nor cold; there were beautiful pictures on the walls, and an
exquisite scent of flowers came from an immense conservatory. I had
never been to such a gathering before; all was new and a surprise, and
very much to my taste, I confess. It was my first glimpse of "Society;"
and last--but one!
There were crowds of people--but no crowd; everybody seemed to know
everybody else quite intimately, and to resume conversations begun an
hour ago somewhere else.
Presently these conversations were hushed, and Grisi and Mario sang! It
was as much as I could do to restrain my enthusiasm and delight. I could
have shouted out loud--I could almost have sung myself!
In the midst of the applause that followed that heavenly duet, a lady
and gentleman came into the room, and at the sight of that lady a new
interest came into my life; and all the old half-forgotten sensations of
mute pain and rapture that the beauty of Madame Seraskier used to make
me feel as a child were revived once more; but with a depth and
intensity, in comparison, that were as a strong man's barytone to a
small boy's treble.
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