The fact that he accepted her invitation at all, she considered a proof of the falsehood of the report about his intended marriage, and a good omen for herself.
She took care to provide a recherché little dinner for her important guest, low as the finances of herself and her brother were—and were likely to be for some time to come. She invited a dashing widow, who was her obliging friend and neighbour, and who was quite ready to play propriety for the occasion. Lydia Graham looked her handsomest when Douglas Dale was ushered into her presence that evening; but she little knew how indifferent were the eyes that contemplated her bold, dark beauty; and how, even as he looked at her, Douglas Dale's thoughts wandered to the fair, pale face of Paulina Durski—that face, which for him was the loveliest that had ever beamed with light and beauty below the stars.
The dinner was to all appearance a success. Nothing could be more cordial or friendly, as it seemed, than that party of four, seated at a prettily decorated circular table, attended by a well-trained man-servant—the dashing widow's butler and factotum, borrowed for the occasion.
Mrs. Marmaduke, the dashing widow, made herself very agreeable, and took care to engage Captain Graham in conversation all the evening, leaving Lydia free to occupy the entire attention of Douglas Dale.
That young lady made excellent use of her time. Day by day her chances of a rich marriage had grown less and less, and day by day she had grown more and more anxious to secure a position and a home. She had a very poor opinion of Mr. Dale's intellect, for she believed only in the cleverness of those bolder and more obtrusive men who make themselves prominent in every assembly. She thought him a man easily to be beguiled by honeyed words and bewitching glances, and she had, therefore, determined to play a bold, if not a desperate game. While Mrs. Marmaduke and Captain Graham were talking in the front drawing-room, Lydia contrived to detain her guest in the inner apartment—a tiny chamber, just large enough to hold a small cottage piano, a stand of music-books, and a couple of chairs.
Miss Graham seated herself at the piano, and played a few bars with an absent and somewhat pensive air.
"That is a mournful melody," said Douglas. "I don't think I ever heard it before."
"Indeed!" murmured Lydia; "and yet I think it is very generally known.
The air is pretty, is it not? But the words are ultra-sentimental."
And then she began to sing softly—
"I do not ask to offer thee
A timid love like mine;
I lay it, as the rose is laid,
On some immortal shrine."