Beverley Byrd to those of Mr. Charles
Gardiner West.
"Only," said she, thinking of her partners, "you'll have to hide me
somewhere."
With a masterful grace which others imitated, indeed, but could not
copy, West extricated his lady from her gallants, and led her away to a
pretty haven; not indeed, to a conservatory, since there was none, but
to a bewitching nook under the wide stairway, all banked about with palm
and fern and pretty flowering shrub. There they sat them down, unseeing
and unseen, near yet utterly remote, while in the blood of West beat the
intoxicating strains of Straus, not to mention the vintage champagne, to
which he had taken a very particular fancy.
All night, while the roses heard the flute, violin, bassoon, none in all
the gay company had been gayer than Sharlee. Past many heads in the
dining-room, West had watched her, laughing, radiant, sparkling as the
wine itself, a pretty little lady of a joyous sweetness that never knew
a care. In the dance, for he had watched her there, too, wondering, as
she circled laughing by, whether she felt any lingering traces of pique
with him, she had been the same: no girl ever wore a merrier heart.
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