Brock shone with a refulgence that bedimmed all expectations.

His wife was delighted; in all of the four years of married life, Roxbury had never been so brilliant, so deliciously English (to use her own expression).

Constance tingled with pride.

Of late, she had experienced unusual difficulty in diverting her gaze from the handsome impostor, and her thoughts were ever of him--in justification of a platonic interest, of course, no more than that.
To-night her eyes and thoughts were for him alone,--a circumstance which, could he have felt sure, would have made him wildly happy, instead of inordinately furious in his complete misunderstanding of her manner toward Freddie Ulstervelt, who had no compunction about making love to two girls at the same time.

She was never so beautiful, never so vivacious, never so resourceful.