It was undeniably a dull evening. All the talking fell to
the share of Mr. Vanstone and Miss Garth. Mrs. Vanstone was habitually
silent; Norah kept herself obstinately in the background; Magdalen was
quiet and undemonstrative beyond all former precedent. From first to
last, she kept rigidly on her guard. The few meaning looks that she cast
on Frank flashed at him like lightning, and were gone before any one
else could see them. Even when she brought him his tea; and when, in
doing so, her self-control gave way under the temptation which no woman
can resist--the temptation of touching the man she loves--even then,
she held the saucer so dexterously that it screened her hand. Frank's
self-possession was far less steadily disciplined: it only lasted as
long as he remained passive. When he rose to go; when he felt the warm,
clinging pressure of Magdalen's fingers round his hand, and the lock of
her hair which she slipped into it at the same moment, he became awkward
and confused. He might have betrayed Magdalen and betrayed himself, but
for Mr. Vanstone, who innocently covered his retreat by following
him out, and patting him on the shoulder all the way.
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