But he was handsome besides; fair-haired and of florid hue, a sort of Saxon Endymion or Adonis.
And she of kindred race and complexion—of nearly equal age—how could she do other than admire him?
There could be no mistaking his admiration of her. Maynard had discovered it—in an instant—on the day when the three had been first brought together.
And often afterward had he observed it; but never more than now, as the youth, leaning over in his saddle, endeavoured to engross the attention of his cousin.
And he appeared to succeed. She had neither look nor word for any one else. She heeded not the howling of the hounds; she was not thinking of the fox; she was listening only to the pretty speeches of young Scudamore.
All this Maynard saw with bitter chagrin. Its bitterness was only tempered by reflecting how little right he had to expect it otherwise.
True he had done Blanche Vernon a service. He believed it to have been repaid; for it must have been through her intercession he had been rescued from the Zouaves. But the act on her part was one of simple reciprocity—the responsive gratitude of a child!
How much more would he have liked being the recipient of those sentiments, seemingly lavished on young Scudamore, and spoken in half-whisper into his ear.
As the ex-captain sate chafing in his saddle, the reflection passed through his mind:
“There is too much hair upon my face. She prefers the cheek that is beardless.”