The stars seemed
to be close outside the verandah, shining on purpose for the dancers;
and these two--the man tall, pale, dark, with flashing eyes and short,
sleek raven hair, small head, noble bearing; the girl divinely lovely in
her marble purity of complexion, her classical grace of form--these two
were, as every one avowed and acknowledged, the handsomest couple in the
room.
'We're none of us in it compared with them,' said a young naval
commander to his partner, whereupon the young lady looked somewhat
sourly, and replied that Lady Lesbia's features were undeniably regular
and her complexion good, but that she was wanting in soul.
'Is she?' asked the sailor, incredulously, 'Look at her now. What do you
call that, if it isn't soul?'
'I call it simply disgraceful,' answered his partner, sharply turning
away her head.
Lesbia was looking up at the Spaniard, her lips faintly parted, all her
face listening eagerly as she caught some whispered word, breathed among
the soft ripples of her hair, from lips that almost touched her brow.
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