He was no longer the
chaperon of the dancing hours, but their partner. And a new fire shone in
his blue eyes, an unaccustomed red ran over his cheeks, as he heard
Julian's answer to his question. From that moment he ceased to play what,
it seemed, had been but a part, the empty ivory _r?le_ of saint. For
Julian was no longer conscious or observant of him, no longer able to
wonder at his abrupt transformation. In a flash he cast off his habitual
restraint and passed from the reserve of thought to the rowdyism of act.
He chattered unceasingly, dressing his English in all the slang
embroidery of the day. He laughed and chaffed, exchanged repartees with
the flowing multitude through which they passed, stopped to speak to the
flaunting women and loaded them with extravagant compliments, elbowed
loungers out of his way, and made the most personal remarks on those
around him. Two men went by, and one of them exclaimed, with a surprised
glance at Valentine:
"I'm damned! Why, there goes the Saint of Victoria Street."
"Saint!" said the other; "I should think devil the more appropriate name.
That chap looks up to anything."
"Ah, well; when a saint turns sinner--," answered the first speaker, with
a laugh.
Valentine heard the words and burst into a roar of laughter.
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