But Chauvelin remained urbane, sarcastic, mysterious; not a
line betrayed to the poor, anxious woman whether she need fear or
whether she dared to hope.
Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady
Blakeney never stepped from any house into her coach, without an
escort of fluttering human moths around the dazzling light of her
beauty. But before she finally turned away from Chauvelin, she held
out a tiny hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal
which was essentially her own.
"Give me some hope, my little Chauvelin," she pleaded.
With perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny hand, which
looked so dainty and white through the delicately transparent black
lace mitten, and kissing the tips of the rosy fingers:--
"Pray heaven that the thread may not snap," he repeated, with
his enigmatic smile.
And stepping aside, he allowed the moths to flutter more
closely round the candle, and the brilliant throng of the JEUNESSE
DOREE, eagerly attentive to Lady Blakeney's every movement, hid the
keen, fox-like face from her view.
CHAPTER XVI RICHMOND
A few minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in cozy furs,
near Sir Percy Blakeney on the box-seat of his magnificent coach, and
the four splendid bays had thundered down the quiet street.
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