"Who, sir?" said the Provencal, looking another way, with dogged stupidity.
"Who? Damn it, man! Nay, pray forgive my ill manners, but I felt glad, sir, and proud, sir. Who? Charley Vernon and Lucretia Clavering."
"Assuredly, yes. Do you think that there is a chance of so happy an event?"
"Why, it depends only on Lucretia; I shall never force her." Here Sir Miles stopped, for Gabriel, unperceived before, picked up his patron's pocket-handkerchief.
Olivier Dalibard's gray eyes rested coldly on his son. "You are not dancing to-night, my boy. Go; I like to see you amused."
The boy obeyed at once, as he always did, the paternal commands. He found a partner, and joined a dance just begun; and in the midst of the dance, Honore Gabriel Varney seemed a new being,—not Ardworth himself so thoroughly entered into the enjoyment of the exercise, the lights, the music. With brilliant eyes and dilated nostrils, he seemed prematurely to feel all that is exciting and voluptuous in that exhilaration which to childhood is usually so innocent. His glances followed the fairest form; his clasp lingered in the softest hand; his voice trembled as the warm breath of his partner came on his cheeks.
Meanwhile the conversation between the chess-players continued.
"Yes," said the baronet, "it depends only on Lucretia. And she seems pleased with Vernon: who would not be?"
"Your penetration rarely deceives you, sir. I own I think with you.
Does Mr. Vernon know that you would permit the alliance?"
"Yes; but—" the baronet stopped short.