“Don’t jest about impossibilities, Captain,” said Mrs. Osborn. “Lord Avondale will soon return, and—well, we all know what that means.”
Hugh’s face reddened at Mrs. Osborn’s words. He was not at all sure about the correctness of her inference.
“My calls at Major Hampton’s are quite as frequent as at Mr. Horton’s,” replied Hugh.
“You could come oftener and still be welcome,” observed Marie, while her heart beat fast with admiration for Hugh, an admiration she could not entirely conceal.
“Oh, thank you,” said Hugh, “that is a compliment I shall not soon forget,” and, as he spoke, caution beat a hasty tattoo on the drumhead of conscience.
Hugh could not help noticing that Marie was growing more and more beautiful. She was attired in an evening dress of black lace, which was admirably becoming to her graceful figure. Her heavy tresses shone like burnished gold and the softer shades of copper, while the rose hue of perfect health tinted her cheeks. The animated way in which she conversed with Hugh confirmed Mrs. Osborn’s suspicions that she was in love with him, while he was too stupid, she told herself, even to suspect it.
The dinner-hour passed pleasantly, Mrs. Osborn giving the captain but few of her tiger-claw scratches. The veteran invariably took refuge in the snug harbor of little Harry, whenever a serious break seemed imminent, and thus warded off all collisions with the war-cruiser of his domestic life. As they arose from the table, Hugh turned to Mrs. Osborn and asked her rather abruptly when Lord Avondale was expected.
“Why, what is that to you?” replied the wily
Mrs. Osborn, as she looked rather exultingly at him.
“I am interested in knowing,” replied Hugh.