The _Cayman_ had
followed the racers for three hours through a freshening sea, much to
Lady Kirkbank's disgust, and Lesbia had been the soul of the party.
The same yesterday. The yacht had only got back to Cowes in time for the
ball, and all had been hurry and excitement while the ladies dressed and
crossed to the club, the spray dashing over their opera mantles, poor
Lady Kirkbank's complexion yellow with _mal de mer_, in spite of a
double coating of _Blanc de Fedora_, the last fashionable cosmetic.
To-night Lesbia was curiously silent, depressed even, as it seemed to
those who were interested in observing her; and all the world is
interested in a famous beauty. She was very pale, even her lips were
colourless, and the large violet eyes and firmly pencilled brows alone
gave colour to her face. She looked like a marble statue, the eyes and
eyebrows accentuated with touches of colour. Those lovely eyes had a
heavy look, as of trouble, weariness; nay, absolute distress.
Never had she looked less brilliant than to-night; never had she looked
more beautiful.
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