"Whom, to know was to love," the Irishman murmured, with thinly veiled irony.
"Right! Right, indeed!"
"And to love was to know--eh?"
"Right! Right, again!" poor Tom cried, striking the table.
For a moment Hawkesworth contemplated him with amusement. Then--"Well, here's to her!" he cried, raising his glass. "The finest woman in the world!"
"And the best! And the best!" Tom answered.
"And the best! The toast is worthy the best of liquor," Hawkesworth continued, pushing over the other's glass; "but you'll have to drink it cold, for the fire is out."
"The finest woman in the world, and the best!" the lad cried; his eyes glowed as he stood up reverently, his glass in his hand. "She is that, isn't she, Hawkesworth?"
"She is all that, I'll answer for it!" the Irishman replied, with a stifled laugh. Lord! what fools there were in the world! "By this time to-morrow she'll be yours! Think of it, lad!" he continued, with an ugly-sounding, ugly-meaning laugh; at which one of his listeners shuddered.
But Tom, in the lover's seventh heaven, was not that one. His Oriana, who to others was a handsome woman, bold-eyed and free-tongued, was a goddess to him. He saw her through that glamour of first love that blesses no man twice. He felt no doubt, harboured no suspicion, knew no fear; he gave scarce one thought to her past. He was content to take for gospel all she told him, and to seek no more. That he--he should have gained the heart of this queen among women seemed so wonderful, so amazing, that nothing else seemed wonderful at all.