It was the first time Denry had seen the Countess, save at a distance.
Assuredly she was finer even than her photographs. Entirely different
from what one would have expected! So easy to talk to! (Yet what had he
said to her? Nothing--and everything.)
He nodded his head and murmured, "No mistake about that lot!" Meaning,
presumably, that all that one had read about the brilliance of the
aristocracy was true, and more than true.
"She's the finest woman that ever came into this town," he murmured.
The truth was that she surpassed his dreams of womanhood. At two o'clock
she had been a name to him. At five minutes past two he was in love with
her. He felt profoundly thankful that, for a church tea-meeting that
evening, he happened to be wearing his best clothes.
It was while looking at her list of invitations to the ball that he
first conceived the fantastic scheme of attending the ball himself. Mr
Duncalf was, fussily and deferentially, managing the machinery of the
ball for the Countess. He had prepared a little list of his own of
people who ought to be invited. Several aldermen had been requested to
do the same.
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