From being an intensely eager man
of affairs he drifted into a social lounger--the lapdog of the
drawing-room--where the close breath of some rare perfume meant more
than the clash of interests, and the conquest of a woman greater
than that of a nation.
Just at this period Ethel Chichester was the especial object of his
adoration.
Her beauty appealed to him.
Her absolute indifference to him stung him as a lash. It seemed to
belittle his powers of attraction. Consequently he redoubled his
efforts.
Ethel showed neither like nor dislike--just a form of toleration.
Brent accepted this as a dog a crumb, in the hope of something more
substantial to follow. He had come that morning with a fixed
resolve. His manner was determined. His voice wooed as a caress. He
went tenderly to Ethel the moment the door closed on Jarvis.
"How are you?" he asked, and there was a note of subdued passion in
his tone.
"Fair," replied Ethel, without even looking at him. "Where is your
mother?" suggesting that much depended on the answer.
"Lying down," answered Ethel, truthfully and without any feeling.
"And Alaric?"
"In the garden."
"Then we have a moment or two--alone?" Brent put a world of meaning
into the suggestion.
"Very likely," said Ethel, picking up a score of Boheme and looking
at it as if she saw it for the first time: all the while watching
him through her half-closed eyes.
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