The Danger MarkChambers, Robert W. (Robert William)
General
The Danger Mark
Chambers, Robert W. (Robert William)
New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
He did not care to enlighten her, but stood laughing and twirling his
sword-knot and looking across the glittering throng, where a daintily
masked young girl stood defending herself with fan and bouquet against
the persistence of her gallants. Then he shook out the lace at his
gilded cuffs, dropped one palm on his sword-hilt, saluted Kathleen's
finger-tips with graceful precision, and sauntered toward Geraldine,
dusting his nose with his filmy handkerchief--a most convincing replica
of the bland epoch he impersonated.
As for Geraldine, she was certainly a very lovely incarnation of that
self-satisfied and frivolous century; her success had already excited
her a little; men seemed suddenly to have gone quite mad about her; and
this and her own beauty were taking effect on her, producing an effect
the more vivid, perhaps, because it was a reaction from the perplexities
and tears of yesterday and the passionate tension of the morning.
Within her breast the sense of impending pleasure stirred and fluttered
deliciously with every breath of music; the confused happiness of being
in love, the relief in relaxation from a sterner problem, the noisy
carnival surging, rioting around her, men crowding about her, eager in
admiration and rivalry, the knowledge of her own loveliness--all these
set the warm blood racing through every vein, and tinted lip and cheek
with a colour in brilliant contrast to the velvety masked eyes and the
snow of the slender neck.
Through the gay tumult which rang ceaselessly around her, where she
stood, plying her painted fan, her own laughter sounded at intervals,
distinct in its refreshing purity, for it had always that crystalline
quality under a caressing softness; but Duane, who had advanced now to
the outer edge of the circle, detected in her voice no hint of that
thrilling undertone which he had known, which he alone among men had
ever awakened. Her gaiety was careless, irresponsible, childlike in its
clarity; under her crescent mask the smiles on her smooth young face
dawned and died out, brief as sun-spots flashing over snow. Briefer
intervals of apparent detachment from everything succeeded them; a
distrait survey of the lantern-lit dancers, a preoccupied glance at the
man speaking to her, a lifting of the delicate eyebrows in smiling
preoccupation. But always behind the black half-mask her eyes wandered
throughout the throng as though seeking something hidden; and on her
vivid lips the smile became fixed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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