It had seemed just
lately, however, as if Charlotte was growing a little weary of the
gorgeous spectacle--the ever-changing, ever-splendid diorama of West End
life. She no longer exclaimed at the sight of each exceptional toilette;
she no longer smiled admiringly on the thoroughbred horses champing their
bits in the immediate neighbourhood of her bonnet; she no longer gave a
little cry of delight when the big drags came slowly along the crowded
ranks, the steel bars shining as they swung loosely in the low afternoon
sunlight, the driver, conscious of his glory, grave and tranquil, with
the pride that apes humility.
"See, Lotta," said Miss Paget, upon an especially bright May evening, as
one of these gorgeous equipages went past Mr. Sheldon's landau, "there's
another drag. Did you see it?"
"Yes, dear, I saw it."
"And are you tired of four-in-hands? You used to admire them so much."
"I admire them as much as ever, dear."
"And yet you scarcely gave those four splendid roans a glance."
"No," Charlotte answered, with a faint sigh.
"Are you tired, Lotta?" Miss Paget asked, rather anxiously. There was
something in Charlotte's manner of late that had inspired her with a
vague sense of anxiety; some change which she could scarcely define--a
change so gradual that it was only by comparing the Charlotte of some
months ago with the Charlotte of the present that she perceived how real
a change it was.
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