'From—a gentleman?'
'No. From a lady,' says Halkett shortly, and turns away his head.
On the instant, the words the major had uttered in the stables come back to Miss Mordaunt's mind, and without further comment she sweeps past Halkett into the house, and he sees her no more until dinner-time.
When half-past seven chimes out, and the solemn retainer of the House of Mordaunt announces dinner as being served, both Major Blake and Captain Halkett make a hard fight of it to take Miss Cissy down; but Fate, in the person of Sir Thomas Lobin, interferes, and balks them of their prey. Halkett, however, may be said to have the best of it, as he succeeds in seating himself directly opposite his Irish divinity, and so can watch the changes of her beloved face, and perhaps edge in a word or two, addressed particularly to her, during the repast. All this can be the more readily accomplished, as he has been told off to a young lady who, if not actually insane, is at all events three parts silly, and so does not feel it incumbent upon him to supply her with the orthodox amount of small-talk.
Major Blake falling into line, finds himself presently situated somewhat low down, with Mrs Fairfax on one side of him, and Grace Elton, a cousin of Cissy's, on the other. If it were not that his thoughts are altogether centred on Miss Mordaunt, he might have considered himself in luck, as he is undoubtedly in very good quarters. Grace Elton is as unaffected as she is charming, and extremely pretty into the bargain. But the major will neither acknowledge nor see anything beyond the tip of Cissy's nose, as it shews itself provokingly every now and then from behind the epergne.
On a line with Sir Thomas, and the third from him, sits Mrs Leyton the Indian widow, in a ravishing costume of pearl and blue that speaks alone of worth. She is looking wonderfully handsome to-night, and has a bright adorable spot on each cheek that is not born of rouge. She is keeping her hand in by trying a little mild flirtation with the vicar, who occupies her right, and is making very pretty play; while his daughter—who is almost too young for society—watching them from the opposite side, finds her mind much exercised, and wonders in her heart if Mrs Leyton is really very fond of papa. Surely she must be; else why does she raise her large soft dark eyes so tenderly to his once in every three minutes precisely, by the marble clock on the chimney-piece?
Aunt Isabel, at the head of the table, is radiant as usual, and dispenses roast turkey and smiles with equal alacrity. She is carving with even more than her customary vigour and well-known proficiency, while at the same time she is listening to and adding a word here and there to every topic under discussion. She is, however, particularly attentive to Miss Lobin, who sits beside her, and who is as deaf as a post; though no trouble to any one except herself, poor lady, as she seeks not for conversation, and as long as she gets a bit of everything mentioned in the menu, is perfectly content.
There are two or three stray men from the neighbouring barracks scattered up and down; and these, with the three Misses Brighton—who being evidently not cut out by mother Nature for the civil service, have been considered suitable to ask to meet them—make up the party.
'Well, Cis, you had a pleasant day, I hope?' says Uncle Charlie, presently addressing his favourite niece.
'A delicious day, dear uncle; only we wound up with a misfortune. I was stupid enough to hurt Captain Halkett's horse on my way home through the Park; though indeed I scarcely think it was my fault. However, as it was to happen, we were lucky in having it occur at the end, instead of the beginning of our day, as we had our ride in spite of it.'