I
|BALZATORE, by many coquetries, had long been trying to attract their
attention. At last he had succeeded.
“You have an admirer,” Ruth, with a gleam, remarked to her companion.
“Mercy, how he's ogling you.”
“Yes,” answered Lucilla Dor, untroubled, in that contented, caressing
voice of hers, while, her elbow on the table, with the “languid grace,”
about which Ruth chaffed her a good deal, she pensively nibbled a fig.
“The admiration is reciprocal. What a handsome fellow he is!”
And her soft blue eyes smiled straight into Balzatore's eager brown
ones.
Quivering with emotion, Balzatore sprang up, and in another second would
have bounded to her side.
“Sit down, sir; where are you going?” sternly interposed Bertram. Placed
with his back towards the ladies, he was very likely unaware of their
existence.
Balzatore sat down, but he gave his head a toss that clearly signified
his opinion of the restraint put upon him: senselessly conventional,
monstrously annoying. And he gave Lucilla Dor a look. Disappointment
spoke in it, homage, dogged--'tis a case for saying so--dogged tenacity
of purpose. “Never fear,” it promised, “I'll find an opportunity yet.”
He found it, sure enough, some twenty minutes later.