It was not long before the lover’s eye discovered the object of his attachment.  Flora Mac-Ivor was in the act; of returning to her seat, near the top of the room, with Rose Bradwardine by her side.  Among much elegance and beauty, they had attracted a great degree of the public attention, being certainly two of the handsomest women present.  The Prince took much notice of both, particularly of Flora, with whom he danced; a preference which she probably owed to her foreign education, and command of the French and Italian languages.

When the bustle attending the conclusion of the dance permitted, Edward, almost intuitively, followed Fergus to the place where Miss Mac-Ivor was seated.  The sensation of hope, with which he had nursed his affection in absence of the beloved object, seemed to vanish in her presence, and, like one striving to recover the particulars of a forgotten dream, he would have given the world at that moment to have recollected the grounds on which he had founded expectations which now seemed so delusive.  He accompanied Fergus with downcast eyes, tingling ears, and the feelings of the criminal, who, while the melancholy cart moves slowly through the crowds that have assembled to behold his execution, receives no clear sensation either from the noise which fills his ears, or the tumult on which he casts his wandering look.

Flora seemed a little—­a very little—­affected and discomposed at his approach.  ‘I bring you an adopted son of Ivor,’ said Fergus.

‘And I receive him as a second brother,’ replied Flora.

There was a slight emphasis on the word, which would have escaped every ear but one that was feverish with apprehension.  It was, however, distinctly marked, and, combined with her whole tone and manner, plainly intimated, ’I will never think of Mr. Waverley as a more intimate connexion.’  Edward stopped, bowed, and looked at Fergus, who bit his lip; a movement of anger, which proved that he also had put a sinister interpretation on the reception which his sister had given his friend.  ‘This, then, is an end of my day-dream!’ Such was Waverley’s first thought, and it was so exquisitely painful as to banish from his cheek every drop of blood.

‘Good God!’ said Rose Bradwardine, ‘he is not yet recovered!’

These words, which she uttered with great emotion, were overheard by the Chevalier himself, who stepped hastily forward, and, taking Waverley by the hand, inquired kindly after his health, and added, that he wished to speak with him.  By a strong and sudden effort, which the circumstances rendered indispensable, Waverley recovered himself so far as to follow the Chevalier in silence to a recess in the apartment.