I saw less of Dorothy then than I had in any summer of my life before.  In spite of Mrs. Manners, the chrysalis had burst into the butterfly, and Wilmot House had never been so gay.  It must be remembered that there were times when young ladies made their entrance into the world at sixteen, and for a beauty to be unmarried at twenty-two was rare indeed.  When I went to Wilmot House to dine, the table would be always full, and Mr. Marmaduke simpering at the head of it, his air of importance doubled by his reflected glory.

“We see nothing of you, my lad,” he would say; “you must not let these young gallants get ahead of you.  How does your grandfather?  I must pay my compliments to-morrow.”

Of gallants there were enough, to be sure.  Dr. Courtenay, of course, with a nosegay on his coat, striving to catch the beauty’s eye.  And Mr. Worthington and Mr. Dulany, and Mr. Fitzhugh and Mr. Paca, and I know not how many other young bachelors of birth and means.  And Will Fotheringay, who spent some of his time with me at the Hall.  Silver and China, with the Manners coat-of-arms, were laid out that had not seen the light for many along day.  And there were picnics, and sailing parties, and dances galore, some of which I attended, but heard of more.  It seemed to me that my lady was tiring of the doctor’s compliments, and had transferred her fickle favour to young Mr. Fitzhugh, who was much more worthy, by the way.  As for me, I had troubles enough then, and had become used in some sort to being shelved.

One night in July,—­’twas the very day Mr. Carvel had spoken to me of Grafton,—­I had ridden over to Wilmot House to supper.  I had little heart for going, but good Mrs. Manners herself had made me promise, and I could:  not break my word.  I must have sat very silent and preoccupied at the table, where all was wit and merriment.  And more than once I saw the laughter leave Dorothy’s face, and caught her eyes upon; me with such a look as set my beast throbbing.  They would not meet my own, but would turn away instantly.  I was heavy indeed that night, and did not follow the company into the ballroom, but made my excuses to Mrs. Manners.

The lawn lay bathed in moonlight; and as I picked, my way over it toward the stables for Firefly, I paused to look back at the house aglow, with light, the music of the fiddles and the sound of laughter floating out of the open windows.  Even as I gaped a white figure was framed in the doorway, paused a moment on the low stone step, and then came on until it stood beside me.

“Are you not well, Richard?”

“Yes, I am well,” I answered.  I scarcely knew my own voice.

“Is your grandfather worse?”

“No, Dorothy; he seems better to-day.”

She stood seemingly irresolute, her eyes new lifted, now falling before mine.  Her slender arms bare, save for the little puff at the shoulders; her simple dress drawn a little above the waist, then falling straight to the white slipper.  How real the ecstasy of that moment, and the pain of it!