Mrs.Highcamp hung with languid but unaffected interest upon the warm and impetuous volubility of her left-hand neighbor, Victor Lebrun.Her attention was never for a moment withdrawn from him after seating herself at table; and when he turned to Mrs.Merriman, who was prettier and more vivacious than Mrs.Highcamp, she waited with easy indifference for an opportunity to reclaim his attention.There was the occasional sound of music, of mandolins, sufficiently removed to be an agreeable accompaniment rather than an interruption to the conversation.Outside the soft, monotonous splash of a fountain could be heard; the sound penetrated into the room with the heavy odor of jessamine that came through the open windows.
The golden shimmer of Edna's satin gown spread in rich folds on either side of her.There was a soft fall of lace encircling her shoulders.It was the color of her skin, without the glow, the myriad living tints that one may sometimes discover in vibrant flesh.There was something in her attitude, in her whole appearance when she leaned her head against the high-backed chair and spread her arms, which suggested the regal woman, the one who rules, who looks on, who stands alone.
But as she sat there amid her guests, she felt the old ennui overtaking her; the hopelessness which so often assailed her, which came upon her like an obsession, like something extraneous, independent of volition.It was something which announced itself; a chill breath that seemed to issue from some vast cavern wherein discords waited.There came over her the acute longing which always summoned into her spiritual vision the presence of the beloved one, overpowering her at once with a sense of the unattainable.