"Pandora—was she a papist too?—Away with this witch! she must indeed be an ill woman. But now, Mr. Fenton, do you really believe in all the charms of these old enchantresses?"
"No, but I do devoutly in those of the young," he added gaily, as he led her down the dance, resigned her to Douglas, and turned to Annie Laurie, who whispered,
"Saw ye who overheard your tête-à-tête?"
"No," he replied, laughing; "but perhaps it was the great subject thereof."
"One not much better, certes. He is behind you now."
Walter turned and beheld the large dark eyes of Lord Clermistonlee, fixedly regarding him with an expression too hostile to be misunderstood. He replied by a glance as haughty and as stern; but a cold and inexplicable smile curled the proud lip of the handsome roué, as he turned slowly away, and addressed himself to Lady Charteris, the beautiful blonde, who rustled in a ponderous suit of brocade, and stood five feet seven inches independent of "cork-heeled shoon," being in every sense of the word what the Scotch were wont to consider a "fine" woman, one of those stately and patagonian beauties, of whom once in a time Edinburgh could always boast a large stock, but who appear to have vanished with the hoops and fardingales, the bobwigs and laced coats, the gentlemanly spirit and the sterling worth of the "last century."
In the middle of the cotillon, Fergusson of Craigdarroch, who had been looking unutterable things for some time, now approached, and twisting his moustachios, said with cold hauteur,
"Your humble servant, Mr. Douglas."
"Craigdarroch, yours," rejoined Finland, quite as coldly, and they surveyed each other from head to foot.
"I requested the honour of Mistress Laurie's hand for this cotillon."