"I pray you teach something of your art to Mr. Bevan," said she, spitefully, over her fan's silk edge.
"I am teaching him now," said I.
It was true. The dragoon was staring at Mrs. Hamilton in undisguised displeasure. As for Silver Heels, she observed us with a scornful amazement which roused all the cruelty in me, though I knew I was losing her innocent belief in me and tearing my respectability to shreds under her clear gray eyes.
For a bud from Mrs. Hamilton's caushet I threw away the pure faith of my little comrade; for a touch of her hand I blighted her trust; and laughed as I did it.
Only once was Mrs. Hamilton off her guard, when my earnest acting had suddenly become real to me—a danger, I have since found, that no actors are too clever to escape sometimes.
"If for one moment you could be in earnest," she ventured, with a smile.
I was on guard again before she finished, and she saw it, but was too wise to betray regret or anger for her mistake.
"Pray, cease," she said; "you weary me, Mr. Cardigan. The coldest among us reflect fire, even though it be as false as the dead fires of the moon. You are prettily revenged; let us have peace."
Now the healths flew thick and fast from Sir William and Lord Dunmore, the titled toast-masters, and we drank his Majesty George the Third in bumpers which set the Indians a-howling like timber wolves at Candlemas.
Indeed, our forest of lights might have served for the Romish feast itself.