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Madame de Netteville's position in London society was obviously excellent. If she had peculiarities of manner and speech they were easily supposed to be French. Meanwhile she was undeniably rich and distinguished, and gifted with a most remarkable power of protecting herself and her neighbors from boredom.
He bent over her with half-articulate words of amazement, of passion. He led her to her chair, and kneeling before her, he tried, so far as the emotion of both would let him, to make her realize what was in his own heart, the penitence and longing which had winged his return to her. Without a mention of Madame de Netteville's name, indeed! That horror she should never know.
He was drawn without knowing it into a match of wits, wherein his strokes, if they lacked the finish and subtlety of hers, showed certainly no lack of sharpness or mental resource. Madame de Netteville's tone insensibly changed, her manner quickened; her great eyes gradually unclosed.
He admired the skill, too, of Madame de Netteville's second in the duet, the finish, the alternate sparkle and melancholy of it; and at last he too was drawn in, and found himself listened to with great benevolence by the French man, who had been informed about him, and regarded him indulgently, as one more curious specimen of English religious provincialisms. The journalist, Mr.
The days went on and the date of Madame de Netteville's dinner party had come round. About seven o'clock that evening Catherine sat with the child in the drawing-room, expecting Robert.
In Madame de Netteville's drawing-room he found a small number of people assembled.
In Madame de Netteville's drawing-room he found a small number of people assembled.
But there were one or two persons living who could have read it, and who could have warned you that the true story of Eugénie de Netteville's life was written, not in her literary studies or her social triumphs, but in various recurrent outbreaks of unbridled impulse the secret, and in one or two cases the shameful landmarks of her past.
Since his departure Robert had made the keeping up of his correspondence with the Squire a binding obligation, and he was to-night chiefly anxious to go to Madame de Netteville's that he might write an account of it to Murewell. Still the Squire's talk, and his own glimpse of her at Murewell, had made him curious to see more of the woman herself.
He began to feel a deep and kindly pity for her, coupled with an earnest wish that he could help her to make her life more adequate and satisfying. And all this he showed in the look of his frank gray eyes, in the cordial grasp of the hand with which he said good-bye to her. Madame de Netteville's gaze followed him out of the room the tall boyish figure, the nobly carried head.
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