'Why, Deb! But "little Deb" no longer. How changed! I scarce know you.'
Then Sir Vincent came forward, and they were parted, for Mistress Fleming had duties to fulfil. But ever Kingston's eyes followed her, though she had no eyes for him. Then there was the dancing, and all were seeking Deborah; she was surrounded; and often she saw herself in the tall old mirrors, and her beauty flashed on her like a surprise. Deborah Fleming carried all before her that night; she sang—that was her one perfect gift; she had a splendid voice, and sang with power and sweetness, and some deep emotion threw passion into her song that night. Then there was the supper, when Adam Sinclair sat on Deborah's right hand. Then another measure. But Kingston would not dance, though he loved it with enthusiasm. Then there was the hour of two tolled out from the chimes of Enderby, and the last carriage rolled away.
'Come down and smoke a pipe, boy,' said Sir Vincent; and Kingston said he would follow.
Deborah, tired, but strangely happy, had thrown herself on a sofa. 'Not yet, King,' said she. 'You have been away for two long years; you have much to tell me, sure. You have seen May Warriston?'
'Ay; in a picture-gallery at Florence.'
'Was she changed?'
'She was prettier and graver. I even thought little May somewhat staid and prim; but then old Guardy was at her elbow.'
'Did she speak of me—of us?'
'Of you, a hundred times.'
'Sweet May! And you, Kingston'—Deborah blushed and hesitated—'you have come from Rimbolton?'