Sir John's face relaxed into the only repose he ever allowed it; for
he had a habit of twitching and moving his lips such as some old men
have. And occasionally, in an access of further senility, he
fumbled with his fingers at his mouth. He was clean shaven, and
even in his old age he was handsome beyond other men--standing an
upright six feet two.
The object of his attention was the belle of that ball, Miss
Millicent Chyne, who was hemmed into a corner by a group of eager
dancers anxious to insert their names in some corner of her card.
She was the fashion at that time. And she probably did not know
that at least half of the men crowded round because the other half
were there. Nothing succeeds like the success that knows how to
draw a crowd.
She received the ovation self-possessedly enough, but without that
hauteur affected by belles of balls--in books. She seemed to have a
fresh smile for each new applicant--a smile which conveyed to each
in turn the fact that she had been attempting all along to get her
programme safely into his hands. A halting masculine pen will not
be expected to explain how she compassed this, beyond a gentle
intimation that masculine vanity had a good deal to do with her
success.
"She is having an excellent time," said Sir John, weighing on the
modern phrase with a subtle sarcasm.
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