Chapter 8
As the last cadence drew to a stately close, Tiffany sat, still with her eyes fixated upon his person. The glossy wonder that emanated from her face left little question to her internal state of mind—blank. No, rather, it was filled—with pure, untainted wonder. It was only when he finally bowed with all grace imaginable that she finally surmised his beautiful music had come to an end.
A quarter of an hour she had spent gazing silently around her, occasionally making slight alterations to her posture of reserved defeat. There was absolutely no one she was in the least bit acquainted with, unless she counted the hosts. Yet they were such unagreeable characters, she could hardly acknowledge them as an acquaintance. Most other guests understood and conversed only in French, leaving her to gaze with slight contempt and humiliation.
"Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Excuse-moi-"
Without thinking or looking, Tiffany replied offhandedly, "Sorry. You must have got the wrong person; I don't speak French."
"I beg your pardon, miss. With all due respect, I believe otherwise. May I?" The mere sound of English, albeit lilted with accent, caused Tiffany's eyes to lift. The gentleman was gesturing toward the seat beside her. Although his smile was not overly wide, it radiated warmth equal to that of the sun on a summer morning, especially among the frosty attitude of all other guests.
He was of reasonable height, and what could be seen of his body through his tuxedo seemed interesting enough. However, the gentleman in question was not just any gentleman. It was him.