When he saw that this young man did but smile at Oover and make a
vague deprecatory gesture, he again, in his wrath, forgot his
disabilities. Drawing himself to his full height, he took with great
deliberation a pinch of snuff, and, bowing low to the Duke, said "I am
vastly obleeged to your Grace for the fine high Courage you have
exhibited in the behalf of your most Admiring, most Humble Servant."
Then, having brushed away a speck of snuff from his jabot, he turned
on his heel; and only in the doorway, where one of the club servants,
carrying a decanter in each hand, walked straight through him, did he
realise that he had not spoilt the Duke's evening. With a volley of
the most appalling eighteenth-century oaths, he passed back into the
nether world.
To the Duke, Nellie O'Mora had never been a very vital figure. He had
often repeated the legend of her. But, having never known what love
was, he could not imagine her rapture or her anguish. Himself the
quarry of all Mayfair's wise virgins, he had always--so far as he
thought of the matter at all--suspected that Nellie's death was due to
thwarted ambition. But to-night, while he told Oover about her, he
could see into her soul.
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