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Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingen-
spohr, the Prince of Peterwaradin’s cousin and attache.
The delighted Prince, having less retenue than his French
diplomatic colleague, insisted upon taking a turn with the
charming creature, and twirled round the ball-room with
her, scattering the diamonds out of his boot-tassels and
hussar jacket until his Highness was fairly out of breath. Pa-
poosh Pasha himself would have liked to dance with her if
that amusement had been the custom of his country. The
company made a circle round her and applauded as wildly
as if she had been a Noblet or a Taglioni. Everybody was
in ecstacy; and Becky too, you may be sure. She passed by
Lady Stunnington with a look of scorn. She patronized Lady
Gaunt and her astonished and mortified sister-inlaw—she
ecrased all rival charmers. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth,
and her long hair and great eyes, which had made such an
effect at the commencement of the evening—where was she
now? Nowhere in the race. She might tear her long hair and
cry her great eyes out, but there was not a person to heed or
to deplore the discomfiture.
The greatest triumph of all was at supper time. She was
placed at the grand exclusive table with his Royal Highness
the exalted personage before mentioned, and the rest of the
great guests. She was served on gold plate. She might have
had pearls melted into her champagne if she liked—another
Cleopatra—and the potentate of Peterwaradin would have
given half the brilliants off his jacket for a kind glance from
those dazzling eyes. Jabotiere wrote home about her to his
government. The ladies at the other tables, who supped off
814 Vanity Fair