The Honourable Guy was in appearance all
his mother's child, though he was really a simpler soul. He was
large and pink; large, that is, as to everything but the eyes, which
were diminishing points, and pink as to everything but the hair,
which was comparable, faintly, to the hue of the richer rose. He had
also, it must be conceded, very small neat teeth, which made his
smile look like a young lady's. He had no wish to resemble any such
person, but he was perpetually smiling, and he smiled more than ever
as he approached Rose Tramore, who, looking altogether, to his mind,
as a pretty girl should, and wearing a soft white opera-cloak over a
softer black dress, leaned alone against the wall of the vestibule at
Covent Garden while, a few paces off, an old gentleman engaged her
mother in conversation. Madame Patti had been singing, and they were
all waiting for their carriages. To their ears at present came a
vociferation of names and a rattle of wheels. The air, through
banging doors, entered in damp, warm gusts, heavy with the stale,
slightly sweet taste of the London season when the London season is
overripe and spoiling.
Guy Mangler had only three minutes to reestablish an interrupted
acquaintance with our young lady.
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