It was not flirtation in any way. On that night Judith had no need. Confident in her success with Herbert, she was contented; and cared not to do anything that might hazard a rupture of the blissful chain she believed she had woven around him.
Herbert was standing alone in the crowd. Two young planters were near him, engaged in conversation. They had mixed their liquor, and therefore talked loud.
Herbert could not help hearing what they talked of; and, having heard, could not help heeding it. He was interested in the subject, though not from its singularity; for it was the common topic of the ball-room, and had been throughout the night. The theme was Smythje; and coupled with his name was that of Kate Vaughan.
On hearing these names, Herbert was no longer an involuntary listener. He strained his ears to catch every word. He had not heard the beginning of the dialogue, but the introduction was easily inferred.
“When is it to come off?” inquired the least knowing of the planters, from him who was imparting the information.
“No time fixed yet,” was the reply; “at least, none has been mentioned. Soon, I suppose.”
“There’ll be a grand spread upon the occasion—breakfast, dinner, supper, and ball, no doubt?”
“Sure to be all that. The Custos is not the man to let the ceremony pass without all the éclat.”
“Honeymoon tour afterwards?”
“Of course. He takes her to London. I believe they are to reside there. Mr Smythje don’t much relish our colonial life: he misses the opera. A pity: since it’ll make one beautiful woman less in the Island!”