The very word tropic suggested a romance. And
Lesbia, whose mind was jaded by the monotony of a London season, the
threadbare fabric of society conversation, kindled at any image which
appealed to her fancy.
Clever as Satan, handsome as Apollo, scion of an old Castilian family,
fresh from the tropics. Her imagination dwelt upon the ideas which these
words had conjured up.
Three days after this she was at the opera with her chaperon, her lover
in attendance as usual. The opera was "Faust," with Nillson as
Marguerite. After the performance they were to drive down to Twickenham
on Mr. Smithson's drag, and to dance and sup at the Orleans. The last
ball of the season was on this evening; and Lesbia had been persuaded
that it was to be a particular _recherche_ ball, and that only the very
nicest people were to be present. At any rate, the drive under the light
of a July moon would be delicious; and if they did not like the people
they found there they could eat their supper and come away immediately
after, as Lady Kirkbank remarked philosophically.
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