They were not unseen, however, now, for Hew, who had been fraternising with one of the pretty waitresses who superintended the luxurious supper-tables in the wings of the hall, was watching them with a heart full of growing hatred of Falconer; he longed to do him a mischief of some kind—vaguely, savagely, and Mary too, for violating thus the express orders of her guardian. And how radiantly (disgustingly, he thought) happy they looked!
'I'll mar his wooing, and more!' muttered Hew, who possessed in an eminent degree that quality which is to be largely found in the least intellectual natures—low cunning.
As if she had some intuition of the mal occhio under which they were, she whispered:
'Hew has some deep scheme of mischief in petto against us—I am assured by quiet smiles I have read in his face to-night.'
'He is gone, I think.'
'I hope so; he is so cruel, coarse, and unscrupulous—one, in short, to beware of.'
'Don't bother about Hew, darling; I fear more Sir Piers—and his never consenting.'
'I don't care for what Sir Piers says,' whispered the dear voice; 'I can never, never care for anyone but you, Cecil; I'll wait for you till I'm a hundred.'
At this cheerful prospect he pressed her little gloved hand again.
'I'm sure you'll wait as long as I—but oh, Cecil, I'm so wretched at times!'