CHAPTER IX. "Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals." "POOR little one!" sighed the Contessa Belrotoli ; she has early known that it is the lot of woman to suffer." As she spoke she shuddered visibly in Lady Lappin's chair of honour, and turned her most eloquent eye quickly to the Captain Tiribomba, and back again to Mr Playdell, who had taken a second gondolier that he might bring her the story more quickly. She rewarded him with her kindest glance; and there was a strange power in the Contessa's glances, partly due to the inequality of her eyes. It was hard to tell what made the fascination of this little brown woman. "Ah, but for art!" cried Lady Lappin standing motionless and directing her gaze upwards. "Is it not woman's privilege to sacrifice herself for art?" "Pardon me," said the Captain Tiribomba with a little short bow; "is it art to make a history?" The Captain was inconveniently fond of improving himself. Lady Lappin was a little uncertain about the definition of art. She only answered with a sigh. Her husband Sir Rupert who had been flitting uneasily about his guests now ventured on a question. He glanced at his wife, drew his hand across his lips as if anxious to be convinced of their existence before putting them to use, and then boldly ventured on speech. "How do you know, Playdell—I mean, of course you know, you know. But how do you know about Deane's marriage settlement, and all that, eh?” He felt that he had perhaps gone a little too far, and looked an ample apology. But Bonamy was in no mood to take offence. He was sitting back in his chair smooth, benignant, at rest. He felt that he had done his duty. He had borne the news, he had told the story, and not in vain. The Belrotoli had been stung to a spasmodic interest. Lady Lappin staring with round eyes and mouth had forgotten to consider the fall of her soft white. draperies. Even Tiribomba had kept his high cold |