This was the house which Lesbia had been brought to see, and through
which she walked with the calmly critical air of a person who had seen
so many palaces that one more or less could make no difference.
In vain did Mr. Smithson peruse her countenance in the hope of seeing
that she was impressed by the splendour of his surroundings, and by the
power of the man who commanded such splendour. Lesbia was as cold as the
Italian sculptor's Reading Girl in an alcove of Mr. Smithson's picture
gallery; and the stockbroker felt very much as Aladdin might have done
if the fair Badroulbadour had shown herself indifferent to the hall of
the jewelled windows, in that magical palace which sprang into being in
a single night.
Lesbia had been impressed by that story of poor Belle Trinder and by
Lady Kirkbank's broad assertion that half the young women in London were
running after Mr. Smithson; and she had made up her mind to treat the
man with supreme scorn. She did not want his houses or his yachts.
Nothing could induce her to marry such a man, she told herself; but her
vanity fed upon the idea of his subjugation, and her pride was gratified
by the sense of her power over him.
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