"I dare say my cousin's manner is but what it always is," he thought; "the weary manner of a man who has wasted his youth, and sacrificed all the brilliant chances of his life, and who, even in the hour of pleasure and excitement, is oppressed by a melancholy which he strives in vain to shake off."
The gathering at the breakfast-table was a brilliant one.
Lydia Graham was a superb horsewoman; and in no costume did she look more attractive than in her exquisitely fitting habit of dark blue cloth. The early hour of the meet justified her breakfasting in riding-costume; and gladly availing herself of this excuse, she made her appearance in her habit, carrying her pretty little riding-hat and dainty whip in her hand.
Her cheeks were flushed with a rich bloom—the warm flush of excitement and the consciousness of success. Lionel's attention on the previous evening had seemed to her unmistakeable; and again this morning she saw admiration, if not a warmer feeling, in his gaze.
"And so you really mean to follow the hounds, Miss Graham?" said Mrs.
Mordaunt, with something like a shudder.
She had a great horror of fast young ladies, and a lurking aversion to Miss Graham, whose dashing manner and more brilliant charms quite eclipsed the quiet graces of the lady's two daughters. Mrs. Mordaunt was by no means a match-making mother; but she would have been far from sorry to see Lionel Dale devoted to one of her girls.
"Do I mean to follow the hounds?" cried Lydia. "Certainly I do, Mrs.
Mordaunt. Do not the Misses Mordaunt ride?"
"Never to hounds," answered the matron. "They ride with, their father constantly, and when they are in London they ride in the park; but Mr. Mordaunt would not allow his daughters to appear in the hunting-field."
Lydia's face flushed crimson with anger; but her anger changed to delight when Lionel Dale came to the rescue.
"It is only such accomplished horsewomen as Miss Graham who can ride to hounds with safety," he said. "Your daughters ride very well, Mrs. Mordaunt; but they are not Diana Vernons."