Within, the winding walks dimly echoed whispering words; the lawn was
studded with dazzling groups; on the terrace by the river a dainty
multitude beheld those celebrated waters which furnish flounders to
Richmond and whitebait to Blackwall.
'Mrs. Coningsby shall decide,' said Lord Beaumanoir.
Edith and Lady Theresa Lyle stood by a statue that glittered in the sun,
surrounded by a group of cavaliers; among them Lord Beaumanoir, Lord
Mil-ford, Lord Eugene de Vere. Her figure was not less lithe and
graceful since her marriage, a little more voluptuous; her rich
complexion, her radiant and abounding hair, and her long grey eye, now
melting with pathos, and now twinkling with mockery, presented one of
those faces of witchery which are beyond beauty.
'Mrs. Coningsby shall decide.'
'It is the very thing,' said Edith, 'that Mrs. Coningsby will never do.
Decision destroys suspense, and suspense is the charm of existence.'
'But suspense may be agony,' said Lord Eugene de Vere, casting a glance
that would read the innermost heart of Edith.
'And decision may be despair,' said Mrs. Coningsby.
'But we agreed the other night that you were to decide everything for
us,' said Lord Beaumanoir; 'and you consented.'
'I consented the other night, and I retract my consent to-day; and I am
consistent, for that is indecision.
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