Chapter Forty Eight.
The Dinner.
The dinner-party of that day was the largest Sir George had given. As already known, it was the fifteenth birthday of Blanche, his only child.
The guests intended to take seats at the table had been carefully selected. In addition to those staying at the Hall, there were others specially invited for the occasion—of course, the first families of the shire, who dwelt within dining distance.
In all, there were over twenty—several of them distinguished by titles—while twice as many more were expected to drop in afterwards. A dance was to follow the dinner.
As Maynard, having made his toilet, descended to the drawing-room, he found it comfortably filled. Bevies of beautiful women were seated upon the sofas, each in a wonderful abundance of skirt, and a still more surprising scantiness of bodice and sleeves.
Interspersed among them were the gentlemen, all in deep black, relieved only by the time-honoured white choker—their plain dresses contrasting oddly with the rich silks and satins that rustled around them.
Soon after entering the room, he became conscious of being under all eyes—both male and female: in short, their cynosure.
It was something beyond the mere customary glance given to a new guest on his announcement. As the butler in stentorian voice proclaimed his name, coupling it with his military title, a thrill appeared to pass through the assemblage. The “swell” in tawny moustache, forsaking his habitual air of superciliousness, turned readily toward him; dowagers and duchesses, drawing out their gold-rimmed glasses, ogled him with a degree of interest unusual for these grand dames; while their daughters vouchsafed glances of a more speaking and pleasant nature.
Maynard did not know what to make of it. A stranger of somewhat peculiar antecedents, he might expect scrutiny.