"
"No?"
"No. It's Carter Holmesley. Of course you know about him."
"By advertisement, also; the society-column kind."
"Really, you know, he couldn't keep out of the papers. He hates it with
all his British soul. But being what he is, a prospective duke, an
international poloist, and all that sort of thing, the reporters
naturally swarm to him. Columns and columns; more pictures than a
popular _danseuse_. And all without his lifting his hand."
"_Une mariage de reclame_," observed Miss Van Arsdale. "Is it that that
constitutes his charm for you?"
Miss Van Arsdale's smile was still instinct with mockery, but there had
crept into it a quality of indulgence.
"No," answered the girl. Her face became thoughtful and serious. "It's
something else. He--he carried me off my feet from the moment I met him.
He was drunk, too, that first time. I don't believe I've ever seen him
cold sober. But it's a joyous kind of intoxication; vine-leaves and
Bacchus and that sort of thing 'weave a circle 'round him thrice'--_you_
know. It _is_ honey-dew and the milk of Paradise to him." She laughed
nervously. "And charm! It's in the very air about him. He can make me
follow his lead like a little curly poodle when I'm with him."
"Were you engaged to Delavan Eyre when you met him?"
"Oh, engaged!" returned the girl fretfully.
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