"Never were women more charming than they are now," Owen said, in
order not to appear too much immersed in his own thoughts, and he
picked a woman out, pretending to be interested in her. "That one
leaning a little to the left, her white dog sitting beside her."
"Like a rose in Maytime."
"Rather an orchid in a crystal glass."
Harding accepted the correction.
"Do you know who she is, Harding?"
The question was a thoughtless one, for no one knows the whole of the
peerage, not even Harding, and it was painful for him to admit that
he did not know the lady, who happened to be an earl's daughter--
somebody he really should have known. Not having been born a peer
himself, he had, as a friend once said, resolved to make amends for
the mistake in his birth by never knowing anybody who hadn't a
title. But this criticism was not a just one; Harding was not a
snob. It has already been explained that love of order and tradition
were part of his nature; the reader remembers, no doubt, Harding's
idiosyncrasies, and how little interested he was in writers, and
painters, avoiding always the society of such people. But his face
brightened presently, for a very distinguished woman bowed to him,
and he was glad to tell Owen he was going to stay with her in the
autumn.
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