Lady Mabel stood in no need of these attentions. It was not her first
season; and many a butterfly, that hovered about that garden which
blooms in winter at the West-End, had hailed with delight the
reappearance of this rare flower. And she liked to have them buzzing
about her; it was her due, and yielded pleasant pastime. Yet while
busiest dealing sentiment, jest, and repartee among them, she now had
always an ear and a word for L'Isle, when he condescended to bestow a
few minutes cold consideration on her.
Her gentlemen in waiting wondered at her having so much to say to
L'Isle. She seemed to be under an obligation to be at leisure for him;
and Sir Charles Moreton, who was argus-eyed where Lady Mabel was
concerned, ventured to ask: "What pleasure can you find in talking to
this austere soldier? His smile is a sneer; he warms only to grow
caustic, and his cynical air betrays how little he cares even for
you."
"Were you ever clogged with sweet things?" asked Lady Mabel. "At times
I tire of bonbons, and long for vinegar, salt and pepper. My austere
friend deals in these articles."
She seemed to have found a special use for him, treating him as a
complete thinking machine, of high powers of observation, inflection,
thought and reason, but not susceptible of aught that savored of
feeling, sentiment or passion.
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