Here was a man who vexed her,
who piqued her, and who was rude, for Mae secretly thought it was rude
to neglect Mrs. Jerrold, as the boys did that evening, and yet who was
vexed and piqued in his turn, if she did what he didn't like and looked
at another man.
And then here was the other man. Mae looked down at him.
Bless us! who is to blame a young woman for forgetting everything but
the "other man" when he is a godlike Piedmontese officer, with strong
soft cheek and throat, and Italian eyes, and yellow moustaches, and
spurs and buttons that click and shine in a maddening sort of way?
Of course, in reality, everybody is to blame her, we among the very
virtuous first. In this particular case, however, we have facts, not
morals, to deal with. Mae did see Norman Mann talking delightedly to a
pretty girl, and she did see the officer gazing at her rapturously, and
she quite forgot Othello, and gave back look for look, only more shy and
less intense perhaps, and knew that Norman Mann was very angry and she
and the officer very happy.
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