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He laughed. "Lady Narborough," he whispered. "She perfectly adores him." "You fill me with apprehension. The appeal to Antiquity is fatal to us who are romanticists." "Romanticists! You have all the methods of science." "Men have educated us." "But not explained you." "Describe us as a sex," was her challenge. "Sphynxes without secrets." She looked at him, smiling. "How long Mr.
Often whalemen have found themselves cruising nigh that burning mountain when all aglow with a ball-room blaze. Or, rather, glass-works, you may call this same vitreous isle of Narborough, with its tall chimney-stacks. Where we still stand, here on Rodondo, we cannot see all the other isles, but it is a good place from which to point out where they lie.
I shall go through Debrett carefully to-night and draw out a list of all the eligible young ladies." "With their ages, Lady Narborough?" asked Dorian. "Of course, with their ages, slightly edited. But nothing must be done in a hurry. I want it to be what The Morning Post calls a suitable alliance, and I want you both to be happy."
"Dorian," said Lord Henry, at last, as the chaud-froid was being handed round, "what is the matter with you to-night? You are quite out of sorts." "I believe he is in love," cried Lady Narborough, "and that he is afraid to tell me for fear I should be jealous. He is quite right. I certainly should."
On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough pretending to listen to the Duke's description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day.
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