Colville had never enlightened the Dunkeld family, even before leaving Craigmhor, of his relationship to the missing sisters, or of those views, intentions, and the little romantic plan between himself and Dr. Wodrow, which had proved the cause of so much distress and mischief.
Blanche Galloway, her rival, as Mary began to deem her again, was the gayest of the throng there, and, leaning on Colville's arm clingingly after a long swinging waltz, was fanning herself, and laughing at some remark that was, in her own parlance, 'quite too awfully funny.'
Intent on Colville and on others too, smiling her brightest upon them all, but on him in particular, and bestowing flowers with great empressement from her ample bouquet, as she sat with them in the dimly-lighted conservatory, and flirted with a science born of her partly French blood, she never bestowed a thought on the weary and silent musician, any more than on the aiguletted valets who took about the jellies and ices, etc.
Mary saw that Colville sat out dances, often with pretty companions, over whom his handsome head was bent low in confidential conversation, while he fanned them with gallant assiduity.
'You play most brilliantly, my dear!' said a soft, sweet voice suddenly in Mary's ear.
No one, as yet, had addressed her that night, and she looked up with a startled air to see a very handsome and motherly-looking woman regarding her with kindly interest.
'You have a most exquisite touch,' she continued; 'how I should like my youngest girl to have some lessons from you—even as a permanent musical governess. May I speak to Lady Dunkeld about it?'
'Do not—please do not!' replied Mary, imploringly; 'she knows nothing about me; but I have another reason for declining——'
'Indeed.'
'Yes, madam.'