come off second best. He had pulled away her admirers in two minutes.
When they went their separate ways home, each had to consider the other’s insults, and found enough to keep their ire at a high pitch. Still, Prudence had found him less cutting than she had feared. At least he had not laid down any ultimatums about herself attending parties. It never even occurred to her that she was the one who had done that. Dammler was relieved that no one had jeered at him about “Guelph.” Society seemed to be taking the thing lightly enough. He wondered if Prudence was actually so short of money she had had to sell the book. He knew she couldn’t afford the wedding gown she had wanted, and that he had wanted for her. It must be the very devil to be so short of funds.
Chapter Eight
The two feuding loversmet again a few nights hence at Lord Petersham’s ball, one of the first of the season, and always one of the best. Everyone was there.
Prudence’s book was still one of the major on-dits, but the suppression of Dammler’s sonnets was beginning to be talked of, too. Murray had delivered the boxes of copies to the new house on Berkeley Square, but there had been no bonfire. Dammler had all the boxes but one carted off to the attics. One sat in the middle of his study, ruining the effect of all the place’s finery. A copy was given to an occasional caller and friend, mostly literary cronies, whom he assured his conscience would view it only as a literary work, with no personal significance. They were all too nice to inquire who had inspired the love poems, and accepted his word that they were to Venus. But when Hettie went along with her largest reticule and absconded with half a dozen copies to distribute to her set, and said quite frankly they were to have been dedicated to his fiancée before they had broken up, there wasn’t much secret left in the matter. Anyone with an ounce of ingenuity had read the book and knew all about it.
Prudence went to the ball with her most favored escort, Uncle Clarence, but neither felt it necessary to waste any time with the other after arriving. Clarence had a dashing matron, a Mrs. Peabody, in his eye. He had read and heard enough to know any artist worth his salt had a mistress, and was eager to acquire one. The one he really wanted was the pretty little actress from Shilla, an out-and-outer, everyone said so, but there was some little trouble in getting ahold of her. She seemed to be living with old Lord Exxon, which was a matter of mystery to Clarence. He assumed they were relations, but the fellow had been pretty huffy when he went to call, and told him Cybele did not drive out with gentlemen. They were keeping the girl wrapped up tight as a nun. A regular prude she must be, and it was odd Exxon let her run around the stage half naked, in diaphanous pants you could see her legs through. Mighty fine legs they were.
Clarence’s courting of Mrs. Peabody left Prudence free to pursue her own ends; the major end she had in mind was to get within earshot of Dammler. She had no real desire to cross swords with him again in public, but she did wish to see how he was behaving. So far as she had seen and heard, he was running after every girl in the city. She found him not difficult to keep in sight. Even when she got stuck in a corner with stuffy old Lord Malvern for half an hour, Dammler came and stood not three yards away from her, turned sideways so that he could have seen her if he had wished, but he didn’t once turn his head toward her.
He was with a Miss Grenfell, a pretty young heiress, blond and petite. She was one of the elect who had been allowed to stroke him at Hettie’s. Dammler’s loud talk was first about her hair. “How attractive to see a blonde with brown eyes. One sees such coloring often in Italy, but in England blue eyes are more common. Too common,” he added.
Prudence’s blue eyes snapped, but as Lord Malvern was telling her about some political
When they went their separate ways home, each had to consider the other’s insults, and found enough to keep their ire at a high pitch. Still, Prudence had found him less cutting than she had feared. At least he had not laid down any ultimatums about herself attending parties. It never even occurred to her that she was the one who had done that. Dammler was relieved that no one had jeered at him about “Guelph.” Society seemed to be taking the thing lightly enough. He wondered if Prudence was actually so short of money she had had to sell the book. He knew she couldn’t afford the wedding gown she had wanted, and that he had wanted for her. It must be the very devil to be so short of funds.
Chapter Eight
The two feuding loversmet again a few nights hence at Lord Petersham’s ball, one of the first of the season, and always one of the best. Everyone was there.
Prudence’s book was still one of the major on-dits, but the suppression of Dammler’s sonnets was beginning to be talked of, too. Murray had delivered the boxes of copies to the new house on Berkeley Square, but there had been no bonfire. Dammler had all the boxes but one carted off to the attics. One sat in the middle of his study, ruining the effect of all the place’s finery. A copy was given to an occasional caller and friend, mostly literary cronies, whom he assured his conscience would view it only as a literary work, with no personal significance. They were all too nice to inquire who had inspired the love poems, and accepted his word that they were to Venus. But when Hettie went along with her largest reticule and absconded with half a dozen copies to distribute to her set, and said quite frankly they were to have been dedicated to his fiancée before they had broken up, there wasn’t much secret left in the matter. Anyone with an ounce of ingenuity had read the book and knew all about it.
Prudence went to the ball with her most favored escort, Uncle Clarence, but neither felt it necessary to waste any time with the other after arriving. Clarence had a dashing matron, a Mrs. Peabody, in his eye. He had read and heard enough to know any artist worth his salt had a mistress, and was eager to acquire one. The one he really wanted was the pretty little actress from Shilla, an out-and-outer, everyone said so, but there was some little trouble in getting ahold of her. She seemed to be living with old Lord Exxon, which was a matter of mystery to Clarence. He assumed they were relations, but the fellow had been pretty huffy when he went to call, and told him Cybele did not drive out with gentlemen. They were keeping the girl wrapped up tight as a nun. A regular prude she must be, and it was odd Exxon let her run around the stage half naked, in diaphanous pants you could see her legs through. Mighty fine legs they were.
Clarence’s courting of Mrs. Peabody left Prudence free to pursue her own ends; the major end she had in mind was to get within earshot of Dammler. She had no real desire to cross swords with him again in public, but she did wish to see how he was behaving. So far as she had seen and heard, he was running after every girl in the city. She found him not difficult to keep in sight. Even when she got stuck in a corner with stuffy old Lord Malvern for half an hour, Dammler came and stood not three yards away from her, turned sideways so that he could have seen her if he had wished, but he didn’t once turn his head toward her.
He was with a Miss Grenfell, a pretty young heiress, blond and petite. She was one of the elect who had been allowed to stroke him at Hettie’s. Dammler’s loud talk was first about her hair. “How attractive to see a blonde with brown eyes. One sees such coloring often in Italy, but in England blue eyes are more common. Too common,” he added.
Prudence’s blue eyes snapped, but as Lord Malvern was telling her about some political
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