She gave the signal to rise, and smilingly told Captain Desfrayne he should have half an hour’s grace to smoke a cigar if he pleased.
The ladies adjourned to the white drawing-room, where a soft glitter of wax tapers shed a pleasant, mellow light.
Squire Dormer had arranged to come for his wife and daughter at eight or nine o’clock. When the storm broke, Mrs. Dormer had feared she might be obliged to stay all night, but now the sky had cleared, the sultry heat already nearly dried up the pools of water lying on the garden-walks, and the silver moon had risen in royal splendor.
Blanche flew to the piano—a superb instrument as far as appearance went, but it was very decidedly out of tune. There was no music anywhere visible, but Miss Dormer sat down and began playing morsels and snatches of melody from recollection. Then she asked Lois to sing.
Lois had always been accustomed to so implicitly obey the wishes of those about her, that she did not think of refusing, but took Blanche’s seat and ran her fingers skilfully over the keys.
“I don’t feel very well,” she mildly protested. “But I will do my best.”
“Don’t overexert yourself, my love,” said Lady Quaintree.
“I should be delighted to hear you,” Mrs. Dormer remarked, almost at the same moment.
Captain Desfrayne heard the chords of the piano from his solitary retreat, and, being passionately fond of music, he came out on the terrace and moved into the leafy shadow, from whence he could view the interior of the drawing-room without being himself seen.
Lois had just seated herself as he took up this station. The mellow, amber rays of the wax lights fell on her graceful figure and on her stately head. From the spot where he stood, Paul Desfrayne could watch her every movement. Unconsciously to himself, he drank in the sweet poison of love at every glance as he observed the pure, statuesque lines and curves of that queenly form, the rich, silken shimmer of the lovely hair, the harmonious, suave grace of each motion.