The admirable quadrille band played its most enlivening airs, and the dancing went on with spirit.
Evangeline looked among the dancers for her sister Margaret; for, in spite of her repellant coldness, she thought that she would lend an ear to her forebodings respecting both parents. Indeed, she was growing distracted; for, what with Charles Clinton’s vague warning, her father’s ghastly aberration, and her mother’s flushed excitement, she felt each coming instant would produce some event of a frightful kind.
But Margaret was not to be seen; Evangeline searched the saloons in vain.
No; she was in the garden, with a thick shawl muffled round her, listening to the pleadings of the Duke of St. Allborne.
What had they been saying to each other?
“The jeuce take the wauld!” cried the Duke. “You will be my Duchess some day, and you will be coawted and feted as othaw Duchesses and Countawesses have befaw you, who have had the spiwit to seize such a glowious oppawtunity as this!”
Margaret hesitated a moment.
The coronet danced in her eyes—to part with him now was to lose that bauble.
“I will go with you, St. Allborne,” she said, in a trembling tone.
“My angel!” said the Duke, enrapturedly.