Marriage à la mode | Page 5

is most improper, I may say
dangerous, to admit such a number at once. And, as for seeing the
house, it is simply impossible. I shall make my way down as soon as
possible, and go for a walk."
Captain Boyson looked perplexed. General Hobson was a person of
eminence; Washington had been very civil to him; and the American
officer felt a kind of host's responsibility.
"Wait a moment; I'll try and find somebody." He disappeared, and the
party maintained itself with difficulty in a corner of the landing against
the pressure of a stream of damsels, who crowded to the open doors of
the rooms, looked through the gratings which bar the entrance without
obstructing the view, chattered, and moved on. General Hobson stood
against the wall, a model of angry patience. Cecilia Boyson, glancing at
him with a laughing eye, said in Roger's ear: "How sad it is that your
uncle dislikes us so!"
"Us? What do you mean?"
"That he hates America so. Oh, don't say he doesn't, because I've
watched him, at one, two, three parties. He thinks we're a horrid, noisy,
vulgar people, with most unpleasant voices, and he thanks God for the
Atlantic--and hopes he may never see us again."
"Well, of course, if you're so certain about it, there's no good in
contradicting you. Did you say that lady's name was Floyd? Could I
have seen her last week in New York?"
"Quite possible. Perhaps you heard something about her?"
"No," said Barnes, after thinking a moment. "I remember--somebody
pointed her out at the opera."

His companion looked at him with a kind of hard amusement. Cecilia
Boyson was only five-and-twenty, but there was already something in
her that foretold the formidable old maid.
"Well, when people begin upon Daphne Floyd," she said, "they
generally go through with it. Ah! here comes Alfred."
Captain Boyson, pushing his way through the throng, announced to his
sister and General Hobson that he had found the curator in charge of
the house, who sent a message by him to the effect that if only the party
would wait till four o'clock, the official closing hour, he himself would
have great pleasure in showing them the house when all the tourists of
the day had taken their departure.
"Then," said Miss Floyd, smiling at the General, "let us go and sit in
the garden, and feel ourselves aristocratic and superior."
The General's brow smoothed. Voice and smile were alike engaging.
Their owner was not exactly pretty, but she had very large dark eyes,
and a small glowing face, set in a profusion of hair. Her neck, the
General thought, was the slenderest he had ever seen, and the slight
round lines of her form spoke of youth in its first delicate maturity. He
followed her obediently, and they were all soon in the garden again,
and free of the crowd. Miss Floyd led the way across the grass with the
General.
"Ah! now you will see the General will begin to like us," said Miss
Boyson. "Daphne has got him in hand."
Her tone was slightly mocking. Barnes observed the two figures in
front of them, and remarked that Miss Floyd had a "very--well--a very
foreign look."
"Not English, you mean?--or American? Well, naturally. Her mother
was a Spaniard--a South American--from Buenos Ayres. That's why
she is so dark, and so graceful."
"I never saw a prettier dress," said Barnes, following the slight figure

with his eyes. "It's so simple."
His companion laughed again. The manner of the laugh puzzled her
companion, but, just as he was about to put a question, the General and
the young lady paused in front, to let the rest of the party come up with
them. Miss Floyd proposed a seat a little way down the slope, where
they might wait the half-hour appointed.
That half-hour passed quickly for all concerned. In looking back upon
it afterwards two of the party were conscious that it had all hung upon
one person. Daphne Floyd sat beside the General, who paid her a
half-reluctant, half-fascinated attention. Without any apparent effort on
her part she became indeed the centre of the group who sat or lay on the
grass. All faces were turned towards her, and presently all ears listened
for her remarks. Her talk was young and vivacious, nothing more. But
all she said came, as it were, steeped in personality, a personality so
energetic, so charged with movement and with action that it arrested
the spectators--not always agreeably. It was like the passage of a train
through the darkness, when, for the moment, the quietest landscape
turns to fire and force.
The comparison suggested itself to Captain Boyson as he lay watching
her, only to be received with an inward mockery, half bitter,