There the defection may occur from a quiet dinner-party—even in a country house, where arrivals and departures are more rare than in the grand routs of the town.
True politeness has long since discarded that insufferable ceremony of general leave-taking, with its stiff bows and stiffer handshakings. Sufficient to salute your host—more particularly your hostess—and bow good-bye to any of the olive branches that may be met, as you elbow your way out of the drawing-room.
This was the rule holding good under the roof of Sir George Vernon; and the abrupt departure of Captain Maynard would have escaped comment, but for one or two circumstances of a peculiar nature.
He was a stranger to Sir George’s company, with romantic, if not mysterious, antecedents; while his literary laurels freshly gained, and still green upon his brow, had attracted attention even in that high circle.
But what was deemed undoubtedly peculiar was the mode in which he had made his departure. He had been seen dancing with Sir George’s daughter, and afterward stepping outside with her—through the conservatory, and into the grounds. He had not again returned.
Some of the dancers who chanced to be cooling themselves by the bottom of the stair, had seen his portmanteau taken out, himself following shortly after; while the sound of carriage wheels upon the sweep told of his having gone off for good!
There was not much in all this. He had probably taken leave of his host outside—in a correct ceremonial manner.
But no one had seen him do so; and, as he had been for some time staying at the house, the departure looked somewhat brusque. For certain it was strangely timed.
Still it might not have been remarked upon, but for another circumstance: that, after he was gone, the baronet’s daughter appeared no more among the dancers.
She had not been seen since she had stood up in the valse where she and her partner had been so closely scrutinised!