He tried to shake off the feeling which he was ashamed to acknowledge to himself.
He re-entered the drawing-room, and he saw Miss Graham's face light up with sudden animation as she saw him. He was not skilled in the knowledge of a woman's heart, and he was flattered by that bright look of welcome. He was already half-enmeshed in the web which she had spread for him, and that welcoming smile did much towards his complete subjugation.
He went to a seat near the fascinating Lydia. Between them there was a chess-table. Lydia laid her jewelled hand lightly on one of the pieces.
"Would you think it very wicked to play a game of chess on a Christmas evening, Mr. Dale?" she asked.
"Indeed, no, Miss Graham. I am one of those who can see no sinfulness in any innocent enjoyment."
"Shall we play, then?" asked Lydia, arranging the pieces.
"If you please."
They were both good players, and the game lasted long. But ever and anon, while waiting for Lydia to move, Lionel glanced towards the spot where Sir Reginald Eversleigh stood, engaged in conversation with Gordon Graham and Douglas Dale.
If the rector himself had known no blot on the character of Reginald Eversleigh, the gipsy's words would not have had a feather's weight with him; but Lionel did know that his cousin's youth had been wild and extravagant, and that he, the beloved, adopted son, the long-acknowledged heir of Raynham, had been disinherited by Sir Oswald—one of the best and most high-principled of men.
Knowing this, it was scarcely strange if Lionel Dale was in some degree influenced by the gipsy's warning. He scanned the face of his cousin with a searching gaze.