The punch of his father's brewing and the port of bygone generations of Conyers were playing havoc with tongues and limbs of the younger beaux of that merry company.
Disgusted with drunken jests, which suited ill with his present mood, the young man took the first opportunity to slip away unseen.
He was hoping to find some one awaiting him in the saloon.
But, as I have said, the little lady he wanted had already retired, less from desire than modesty, and he was left to wander alone the length of the great room pondering philosophically on the strange trick of fate that brought him here. Surely the ghost of Ralph Conyers, bent, twisted Ralph, who had carried a life-grudge to the grave, would be peeping at him from the shadows, shaking a crippled fist at the son of the man who first betrayed and then outraged his memory?
His father the friend of Morice Conyers! His father the traitor who had sent Ralph Conyers to his grave!
And a third note,--be it added beneath his breath,--he himself the man who would woo Ralph Conyers's pretty daughter and win her--if the world could hold so much happiness for a sinner--as his wife.
The very thought, mingling with a vision of hazel eyes and the soft roundness of a white throat, set his pulses galloping.
He opened the casement window, stepping out on to the terrace to cool the fever in his veins. Old Ben Jonson's song rang in his ears:
"Drink to me only with thine eyes And I will pledge with mine. Or leave a kiss within the cup And I'll not ask for wine."
The very thought seemed to bewilder him,--lips meeting his, eyes to dream the same dream into his, the soft clasp of yielding arms, the caress of a velvet cheek against his burning one.
Fool and idiot! Away with such fantasies! Was it likely that such an angel would look at him so? Would--love--_him_?
He became fierce in his self-contempt, even though the hot blood of youth surged wildly in his veins, ready to beat down all barriers. She love him. Absurd!
Yet stay! Think of those golden hours in Barham woods only that afternoon.
Cupid had been in frolicsome mood then, and yet he could shoot his arrows straight. Standing there in the moonlight alone he was picturing the scene, lingering over the memory of how one bolder sunbeam had been made willing captive in the coils of an errant curl, whilst dimples had danced riotously in smooth cheeks.