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But he looked back again the next instant, and the two men then uttered that inarticulate and inexpressive exclamation which passes for a sign of greeting among gentlemen of the Anglo-Saxon race, in their moments of more acute self-consciousness. "Oh, are you here?" said Bernard. "I thought you were in Paris." "No; I ain't in Paris," Lovelock answered with some dryness.
I suppose she takes ideas from them." A sudden light dawned in my mind. The white dress in which I had seen Mrs. Oke in the yellow room, the day that she showed me Lovelock's verses, was not, as I had thought, a modern copy; it was the original dress of Alice Oke, the daughter of Virgil Pomfret the dress in which, perhaps, Christopher Lovelock had seen her in that very room.
"Come," she said, after a minute, "I want to show you why I believe in Christopher Lovelock. Come with me into the yellow room." What Mrs. Oke showed me in the yellow room was a large bundle of papers, some printed and some manuscript, but all of them brown with age, which she took out of an old Italian ebony inlaid cabinet.
And, with that far-off look in her light eyes, she relapsed into silence. "Have you ever read any of Lovelock's poetry?" she asked me suddenly the next day. "Lovelock?" I answered, for I had forgotten the name. "Lovelock, who" But I stopped, remembering the prejudices of my host, who was seated next to me at table. "Lovelock who was killed by Mr. Oke's and my ancestors."
The last time, Captain Lovelock went with me. Will you come to-night?" Bernard assented with expressive alacrity; he was charmed with her not wishing to break off her conversation with him. "Ah, we 'll all go!" said Mrs. Vivian, who had been listening, and she invited the others to accompany her to the Kursaal.
Well, there had come to live near Okehurst, in a little house recently inherited from an uncle, a certain Christopher Lovelock, a young gallant and poet, who was in momentary disgrace at Court for some love affair. This Lovelock had struck up a great friendship with his neighbours of Okehurst too great a friendship, apparently, with the wife, either for her husband's taste or her own.
But I confess I thought the original Alice Oke, siren and murderess though she might be, very uninteresting compared with this wayward and exquisite creature whom I had rashly promised myself to send down to posterity in all her unlikely wayward exquisiteness. One morning while Mr. Oke gave me her version of the story of Alice Oke and Christopher Lovelock.
Vivian's influence that 's the great thing. Mamma said it was like the odor of a flower. But you don't want to keep smelling a flower all day, even the sweetest; that 's the shortest way to get a headache. Apropos of flowers, do you happen to have heard whether Captain Lovelock is alive or dead? Do I call him a flower? No; I call him a flower-pot.
Bernard had felt sure at Baden that, beneath her contemptuous airs and that impertinent consciousness of the difficulties of conquest by which a pretty American girl attests her allegiance to a civilization in which young women occupy the highest place he had felt sure that Blanche had a high appreciation of her handsome Englishman, and that if Lovelock should continue to relish her charms, he might count upon the advantages of reciprocity.
"We have had a most lovely night; we sat all the evening on Mrs. Vivian's balcony, eating ices. To sit on a balcony, eating ices that 's my idea of heaven." "With an angel by your side," said Captain Lovelock. "You are not my idea of an angel," retorted Blanche. "I 'm afraid you 'll never learn what the angels are really like," said the Captain. "That 's why Miss Evers got Mrs.
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