LITMIR.BIZ

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I don’t intend making it. They can have him at their own price. Caveat emptor. For this little contretemps I needn’t blame him, though I’d give twenty dollars to have an excuse for tweaking his nose!”

      Captain Maynard was anything but a quarrelsome man. He only thought in this strain, smarting under his humiliation.

      “It must have been the doing of the mother, who for a son-in-law prefers Mr Swinton to me. Ha! ha! ha! If she only knew him as I do?”

      Another gulp out of the glass.

      “But the girl was a consenting party. Clearly so; else why should she have hung fire about giving me an answer? Cut out by Dick Swinton! The devil?”

      A third pull at the brandy smash.

      “Hang it! It won’t do to declare myself defeated. They’d think so, if I didn’t go back to the ball-room! And what am I to do there? I don’t know a single feminine in the room and to wander about like some forlorn and forsaken spirit would but give them a chance for sneering at me. The ungrateful wretches! Perhaps I shouldn’t be so severe on the little blonde I might dance with her? But, no! I shall not go near them. I must trust to the stewards to provide me with something in the shape of a partner.”

      He once more raised the glass to his lips, this time to be emptied.

      Then, ascending the stairs, he sauntered back to the hall-room.

      He was lucky in his intercession with the gentlemen in rosettes. He chanced upon one to whom his name was not unknown; and through the intercession of this gentleman found partners in plenty.

      He had one for every dance—waltz, quadrille, polka, and schottishe—some of the “sweetest creatures” on the floor.

      In such companionship he should have forgotten Julia Girdwood.

      And yet he did not.

      Strange she should continue to attract him! There were others fair as she—perhaps fairer; but throughout the kaleidoscopic changes of that glittering throng, his eyes were continually searching for the woman who had given him only chagrin. He saw her dancing with a man he had good reason to despise—all night long dancing with him, observed by everybody, and by many admired.

      In secret unpleasantness Maynard watched this splendid woman; but it was the acmé of bitterness when he saw her give ear to the whisperings of Richard Swinton, and lean her cheek upon his shoulder as they whirled around the room, keeping time to the voluptuous strains of the Cellarius.

      Again occurred to him the same thought: “I’d give twenty dollars to have an excuse for tweaking his nose!”

      He did not know that, at less cost, and without seeking it, he was near to the opportunity.

      Perhaps he would have sought it, but for a circumstance that turned up just in time to tranquillise him.

      He was standing by the entrance, close to a set screen. The Girdwoods were retiring from the room, Julia leaning on the arm of Swinton. As she approached the spot he saw that her eyes were upon him. He endeavoured to read their expression. Was it scornful? Or tender?

      He could not tell. Julia Girdwood was a girl who had rare command of her countenance.

      Suddenly, as if impressed by some bold thought, or perhaps a pang of repentance, she let go the arm of her partner, dropping behind, and leaving him to proceed with the others. Then swerving a little, so as to pass close to where Maynard stood, she said, in a hurried half-whisper:

      “Very unkind of you to desert us!”

      “Indeed!”

      “You should have come back for an explanation,” added she, reproachfully. “I could not help it.”

      Before he could make reply she was gone; but the accent of reproach left tingling in his ear was anything but disagreeable.

      “A strange girl this!” muttered he, in astonished soliloquy. “Most certainly an original! After all, perhaps, not so ungrateful. It may have been due to the mother.”

Chapter Twelve.

       Table of Contents

      “Après le Bal.”

      The ball was almost over; the flagged and flagging dancers rapidly retiring. The belles were already gone, and among them Julia Girdwood. Only the wallflowers, yet comparatively fresh, were stirring upon the floor. To them it was the time of true enjoyment; for it is they who “dance all night till broad daylight.”

      Maynard had no motive for remaining after Miss Girdwood was gone. It was, in truth, she who had retained him. But with a spirit now stirred by conflicting emotions, there would be little chance of sleep; and he resolved, before retiring to his couch, to make one more sacrifice at the shrine of Bacchus.

      With this intent, he again descended the stairway leading to the cellar saloon.

      On reaching the basement, he saw that he had been preceded by a score of gentlemen, who, like himself, had come down from the ball-room.

      They were standing in knots—drinking, smoking, conversing.

      Scarce giving any of them a glance, he stepped up to the bar, and pronounced the name of his drink—this time plain brandy and water.

      While waiting to be served a voice arrested his attention. It came from one of three individuals, who, like himself, had taken stand before the counter, on which were their glasses.

      The speaker’s back was toward him, though sufficient of his whisker could be seen for Maynard to identify Dick Swinton.

      His companions were also recognisable as the excursionists of the row-boat, whose dog he had peppered with duck-shot.

      To Mr Swinton they were evidently recent acquaintances, picked up perhaps during the course of the evening; and they appeared to have taken as kindly to him as if they, too, had learnt, or suspected him to be a lord!

      He was holding forth to them in that grand style of intonation, supposed to be peculiar to the English nobleman; though in reality but the conceit of the stage caricaturist and Bohemian scribbler, who only know “my lord” through the medium of their imaginations.

      Maynard thought it a little strange. But it was many years since he had last seen the man now near him; and as time produces some queer changes, Mr Swinton’s style of talking need not be an exception.

      From the manner in which he and his two listeners were fraternising, it was evident they had been some time before the bar. At all events they were sufficiently obfuscated not to notice new-comers, and thus he had escaped their attention.

      He would have left them equally unnoticed, but for some words striking on his ear that evidently bore reference to himself.

      “By-the-way, sir,” said one of the strangers, addressing Swinton, “if it’s not making too free, may I ask you for an explanation of that little affair that happened in the ball-room?”

      “Aw—aw; of what affair do yaw speak, Mr Lucas?”

      “Something queer—just before the first waltz. There was a dark-haired girl with a diamond head-dress—the same you danced a good deal with—Miss Girdwood I believe her name is—and a fellow with moustache and imperial. The old lady, too, seemed to have a hand in it. My friend and I chanced to be standing close by, and saw there was some sort of a scene among you. Wasn’t it so?”

      “Scene—naw—naw. Only the fellaw wanted to have a spin with the divine queetyaw, and the lady preferred dancing with yaw humble servant. That was all, gentlemen, I ashaw yaw.”

      “We thought there had been a difficulty between him and you. It looked devilish like it.”

      “Not

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