Once more they were dancing together, this time in a valse. Country-bred as she was, she waltzed like a coryphée. She had taken lessons from a Creole teacher, while resident on the other side of the Atlantic.
Maynard was himself no mean dancer, and she was just the sort of partner to delight him.
Without thought of harm, in the abandon of girlish innocence, she rested her cheek upon his shoulder, and went spinning round with him—in each whirl weaving closer the spell upon his heart. And without thought of being observed.
But she was, at every turn, all through the room, both she and he. Dowagers, seated along the sides, ogled them through their eye-glasses, shook their false curls, and made muttered remarks. Young ladies, two seasons out, looked envious—Lady Mary contemptuous, almost scowling.
“The gilded youth” did not like it; least of all Scudamore, who strode through the room sulky and savage, or stood watching the sweep of his cousin’s skirt, as though he could have torn the dress from her back!
It was no relief to him when the valse came to an end.
On the contrary, it but increased his torture; since the couple he was so jealously observing, walked off, arm-in-arm, through the conservatory, and out into the grounds.
There was nothing strange in their doing so. The night was warm, and the doors both of conservatory and drawing-room set wide open. They were but following a fashion. Several other couples had done the same.
Whatever may be said of England’s aristocracy, they have not yet reached that point of corruption, to make appearances suspicious. They may still point with pride to one of the noblest of their national mottoes:—“Honi soit qui mal y pense.”
It is true they are in danger of forsaking it; under that baleful French influence, felt from the other side of the Channel, and now extending to the uttermost ends of the earth—even across the Atlantic.