"No," said Mr. Oaks, with a black scowl, "I hope my legs will be palsied if ever they cross the threshold of that woman! I'm not a hound, to fawn on people who kick me!"
Captain Cavendish only smiled—he rarely lost his temper—and went off to his hotel, whistling an opera air. He passed under Cherrie's window; but no prescience of the flashing black eyes above troubled the serenity of his mind. He was walking steadily to his fate, as we all walk—blindly, unconsciously.
Captain Cavendish was the last to arrive at Redmon—all the other guests were assembled in the drawing-room when he entered, and they had been discussing him and his departure for the last quarter of an hour.
The dinner party at Redmon was a very pleasant one; and every one, except, perhaps, the stately hostess herself, was very gay and animated. Mr. Wyndham, despite the trouble he was in about his poor mad mother, was the most entertaining and agreeable of hosts. The ladies, when they flocked back to the drawing-room, enthusiastically pronounced Mr. Wyndham "a perfect love!" and declared they quite envied Mrs. Wyndham a husband who could tell such charming stories, and who was so delightfully clever and talented. And Olive Wyndham smiled, and sat down at the piano to do her share of the entertaining, with that dreary pain at her beating and rebellious heart that never seemed to leave it now. Yes, it was a very pleasant evening; and Captain Cavendish found it so, and lingered strangely, talking to his hostess after all the rest had gone. Lieutenant the Honorable L. H. Blank, who was waiting for him on the graveled drive outside, grew savage as he pulled out his watch and saw it wanted only a quarter of twelve.
"Confound the fellow!" he muttered, "does he mean to stay all night talking to Mrs. Wyndham, and I am sleepy. Oh, here he is at last! I say, Cavendish, what the dickens kept you?"
Captain Cavendish laughed, as he vaulted into his saddle.
"What's your hurry, my dear fellow? I was talking to Mrs. Wyndham, and common politeness forbade my cutting the conversation short."
"Common bosh! Mrs. Wyndham was yawning in your face, I dare say! My belief is, Cavendish, you are as much in love with that black-eyed goddess now as ever."
"Pooh! it was only a flirtation all through; and I would as soon flirt with a married lady any day as a single one. She looked superb to-night, did not she, in that dress that flashed as she walked—was it pink or white—and that ivy crown on her head?"
"She always looks superb! I should like to fetch such a wife as that back to old England. A coronet would sit well on that stately head."