"You can see how high his lordship stands not only in the county, but everywhere," said Mrs. Hawksley proudly. "They treat him almost as if he were a prince of the blood; and he is the principal gentleman here, though there's some high and mighty ones down there, Miss Lorton, I assure you. That's the Duchess of Cleavemere in that big chair on the dais; and that's her eldest daughter—she'll be as big as the duchess, mark my words—seated beside her; and that's the Marquis of Downfield, that tall gentleman with the white hair. He's a great man, but he can't hold a candle, in appearance, to our earl; and he's a poor man compared with his lordship. And that's Lord Turfleigh, that old gentleman with the very black hair and mustache; dyed, of course, my dear. The 'wicked Lord Turfleigh' they call him—and no wonder. He's the father of Lady Luce. Ah! his lordship's going to dance with her again! Look how pleased her father looks. See, he's nodding and smiling at her; I'll be bound I know what he's thinking of! And I shouldn't be surprised if it came off. Lord Selbie and she used to be engaged, but it was broken off when his lordship's uncle married. The Turfleighs are too poor to risk a marriage without money. But his lordship's the earl now, and, of course——"
Nell understood. It was because the woman he loved had jilted him that Drake had hidden himself from the world at Shorne Mills. That was why he had looked so sad and cast down the day she had first seen him.
"It's a pity your brother doesn't come up," said Mrs. Hawksley, who was standing behind Nell, and could not see the white, strained face. "He'd enjoy the sight, I'm sure. I'm half inclined to send a word to him."
Nell caught her arm. Dick must not come up here and recognize Drake, must not see her white face and trembling lips. If possible, she must leave Anglemere in the morning; must induce Dick to go before he could learn that Drake and Lord Angleford were one and the same.
"My brother would not come," she said. "Please do not send for him. He—the lights——"
Mrs. Hawksley nodded.
"As you think best, my dear," she said. "But it's a pity. Here's the interval now. What is going on in the orchestra?"
Nell looked toward the band, which had ceased playing; but Falconer was softly tuning his violin. About half the dancers had left the room, and those that remained were pacing up and down, talking and laughing, or seated in couples in the alcoves and recesses.
Falconer finished tuning, glanced toward Nell—the gallery was too dimly lit for him to see the pallor of her face—then began to play a solo.
Coming after the dance music, the sonata he had chosen was like a breath of pure, heather-scented air floating in upon the gas-laden atmosphere of the heated room; and at the first strains of the delicious melody the people below stopped talking, and turned their eyes up to the front of the gallery, where the tall, thin form in its worn velvet jacket stood, for that moment, at least, the supreme figure.