"Mr. Isaacs," said she, "some of us know something of your history. Why
will you not tell us the rest now? My uncle has heard nothing of it, and
I know Lord Steepleton is fond of novels."
Isaacs hesitated long, but as every one pressed him in turn, he yielded
at last. And he told it well. It was exactly the narrative he had given
me, in every detail of fact, but the whole effect was different. I saw
how true a mastery he had of the English language, for he knew his
audience thoroughly, and by a little colour here and an altered
expression there he made it graphic and striking, not without humour,
and altogether free of a certain mystical tinge he had imparted to it
when we were alone. He talked easily, with no more constraint than on
other occasions, and his narrative was a small social success. I had not
seen him in evening dress before, and I could not help thinking how much
more thoroughly he looked the polished man of the world than the other
men. Kildare never appeared to greater advantage than in the uniform and
trappings of his profession. In a black coat and a white tie he looked
like any other handsome young Englishman, utterly without individuality.
But Isaacs, with his pale complexion and delicate high-bred features,
bore himself like a noble of the old school.
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