She murmured something, mechanically, about the heat of the room, the crowd, and so forth; his arm went round her; thrillingly her little hand returned the pressure of his own, having to the full as much effect upon him as any words she might have uttered; and in a moment they were lost amid the whirling crowd of hundreds of waltzers. Her great self-control nearly gave way in the delight of dancing with Cecil, 'under the temptation' which, as Wilkie Collins has it, 'no woman can resist--the temptation of touching the man she loves.' Thus the soft pressure of the hand, which silently said so much, was mutually returned again and again, as Cecil guided her unerringly amid the mazy circles, till she paused, palpitating, blushing, and half-reclining, breathlessly on his shoulder. 'I have not had such a waltz to-night, Cecil,' she whispered; 'so delightful, I mean.' 'Nor I, darling--one turn more!' And away they went again, but at a slower pace, which enabled them to converse at intervals. They were not unseen, however, now, for Hew, who had been fraternising with one of the pretty waitresses who superintended the luxurious supper-tables in the wings of the hall, was watching them with a heart full of growing hatred of Falconer; he longed to do him a mischief of some kind--vaguely, savagely, and Mary too, for violating thus the express orders of her guardian. And how radiantly (disgustingly, he thought) happy they looked! 'I'll mar his wooing, and more!' muttered Hew, who possessed in an eminent degree that quality which is to be largely found in the least intellectual natures--low cunning. As if she had some intuition of the _mal occhio_ under which they were, she whispered: 'Hew has some deep scheme of mischief _in petto_ against us--I am assured by quiet smiles I have read in his face to-night.' 'He is gone, I think.' 'I hope so; he is so cruel, coarse, and unscrupulous--one, in short, to beware of.' 'Don't bother about Hew, darling; I fear more Sir Piers--and his never consenting.' 'I don't care for what Sir Piers says,' whispered the dear voice; 'I can never, never care for anyone but you, Cecil; I'll wait for you till I'm a hundred.' At this cheerful prospect he pressed her little gloved hand again. 'I'm sure you'll wait as long as I--but oh, Cecil, I'm so wretched at times!' But the bright _mignonne_ face that smiled back to his didn't look wretched a bit, and in the glittering crowd at times, through which they were sweeping to the intoxicating crashes of the regimental band, while with each other thus, they felt as much alone as if the world contained no other couple than themselves. 'Is not love a thing worth living for, Mary, even for its own sake?' 'It is indeed, Cecil!' whispered Mary, with her brightest smile. 'A dream that comes, I am sure, truly and purely, but once in a lifetime.' 'And love, it is said, works miracles.'