The light of the wax-candles, reflected from the silvered lamps, rendered the reading easy; and with a heart surcharged with supreme joy, he read:—
“Papa is very angry; and I know he will never sanction my seeing you again. I am sad to think we may meet no more; and that you will forget me. I shall never forget you—never!”
“Nor I you, Blanche Vernon,” was the reflection of Maynard, as he refolded the slip of paper, and thrust it back into the pocket of his coat.
He took it out, and re-read it before reaching the railway station; and once again, by the light of a suspended lamp, as he sat solitary in a carriage of the night mail train, up for the metropolis.
Then folding it more carefully, he slipped it into his card-case, to be placed in a pocket nearer his heart; if not the first, the sweetest guage d’amour he had ever received in his life!
Chapter Sixty One.
An Informer.
The disappearance of a dancing guest from the midst of three score others is a thing not likely to be noticed. And if noticed, needing no explanation—in English “best society.”