“Are you sure it is Jilian?” she asked, with an arch bending of the neck.
“Why, there is the little brown mole on your left arm.”
“Oh, cousin,” quoth the lady, covering the offending stigma with her fan, “you must not look at me as close as that.”
“La, Richard, you are growing sweetly wicked. Come, they are striking up in the gallery. Let us lead off the first dance together.”
The hours went gayly that evening, as though Time tripped to some quaint old measure. What rustling of silk there was, what stately mingling of youth and age! How the colors played under the timbered roof, betwixt the dark oaken walls, under the antlered heads and Gothic armor! How plaintive were the violins and how ravishing the mellow piping of the flute! Every one seemed born for laughter and coquetting. Sir Peter himself led out the Lady Letitia to a minuet, the dowager sailing through it with a stateliness that might have stood for history. Mr. Lot had discovered Miss Julia Perkaby, and his red face glistened under the magic of those languishing dark eyes. As for Richard Jeffray, he looked distinguished enough to have played the Young Pretender, and his courtesies to Miss Jilian had tottered on the brink of a declaration. Dick Wilson watched the rout from a dark corner under the minstrels’ gallery. Perhaps he would have preferred to have studied Greek nymphs dancing in Arcady under the moon, their white limbs flashing under the green umbrage of classic trees.
The painter remained in the background during the evening, and beyond gravitating more than once to the supper-room, hugged his isolation in the corner under the minstrels’ gallery. The Lady Letitia was with him ever and again, but Jeffray appeared too busy with Miss Hardacre and his friends to have much time to give to ungainly Dick. Wilson had remained unpresented as yet to Sir Peter and his children. The painter was well content with his obscurity, and beyond indulging in an occasional mild chat with some old lady who had been relegated to the wall, Wilson amused himself with listening to the music, and meditating on the picturesque hypocrisies of life.
All went well till late in the evening, when many of the dancers consented to unmask to each other, and to laugh over the small mysteries black velvet vizards could beget. It was then that the Lady Letitia came sailing down upon Richard Wilson where he sat in his blue coat under the gallery. The old lady had taken good care to keep her eyes on the painter during the whole evening.