The supper itself, absolutely the
best of its kind, from the caviare and plovers' eggs to the
marvellous ices, and served in one of the handsomest rooms in London,
was really beyond criticism. To Trent it seemed almost like a dream,
as he leaned back in his chair and looked down at the little party
- the women with their bare shoulders and jewels, bathed in the soft
glow of the rose-shaded electric lights, the piles of beautiful pink
and white flowers, the gleaming silver, and the wine which frothed
in their glasses. The music of the violins on the balcony blended
with the soft, gay voices of the women. Ernestine was by his side,
every one was good-humoured and enjoying his hospitality. Only one
face at the table was a reminder of the instability of his fortunes
- a face he had grown to hate during the last few hours with a
passionate, concentrated hatred. Yet the man was of the same race
as these people, his connections were known to many of them, he was
making new friends and reviving old ties every moment. During a
brief lull in the conversation his clear, soft voice suddenly
reached Trent's ears. He was telling a story.
"Africa," he was saying, "is a country of surprises. Attra seems
to be a city of hopeless exile for all white people.
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