“I do not need to say I am glad to see you,” said Keith, looking her in the eyes.  “You are my ain countree here.”

At that moment the rose fell at her feet.  It had slipped somehow from the clasp that held it.  A half-dozen men sprang forward to pick it up, but Keith was ahead of them.  He took it up, and, with his eyes looking straight into hers, handed it to her.

“It is your emblem; it is what I always think of you as being.”  The tone was too low for any one else to hear; but her mounting color and the light in her eyes told that she caught it.

Still looking straight into his eyes without a word, she stuck the rose in her bodice just over her heart.

Several women turned their gaze on Keith and scanned him with sudden interest, and one of them, addressing her companion, a broad-shouldered man with a pleasant, florid face, said in an undertone: 

“That is the man you have to look out for, Steepleton.”

“A good-looking fellow.  Who is he?”

“Somebody, I fancy, or our hostess wouldn’t have him here.”

* * * * *

The dinner that evening was a function.  Mrs. Rhodes would rather have suffered a serious misfortune than fail in any of the social refinements of her adopted land.  Rhodes had suggested that Keith be placed next to Mrs. Lancaster, but Mrs. Rhodes had another plan in mind.  She liked Alice Lancaster, and she was trying to do by her as she would have been done by.  She wanted her to make a brilliant match.  Lord Steepleton appeared designed by Providence for this especial purpose:  the representative of an old and distinguished house, owner of a famous—­indeed, of an historic—­estate, unhappily encumbered, but not too heavily to be relieved by a providential fortune.  Hunting was his most serious occupation.  At present he was engaged in the most serious hunt of his career:  he was hunting an heiress.

Mrs. Rhodes was his friend, and as his friend she had put him next to Mrs. Lancaster.

Ordinarily, Mrs. Lancaster would have been extremely pleased to be placed next the lion of the occasion.  But this evening she would have liked to be near another guest.  He was on the other side of the board, and appeared to be, in the main, enjoying himself, though now and then his eyes strayed across in her direction, and presently, as he caught her glance, he lifted his glass and smiled.  Her neighbor observed the act, and putting up his monocle, looked across the table; then glanced at Mrs. Lancaster, and then looked again at Keith more carefully.

“Who is your friend?” he asked.

Mrs. Lancaster smiled, with a pleasant light in her eyes.

“An old friend of mine, Mr. Keith.”

“Ah!  Fortunate man.  Scotchman?”

“No; an American.”

“Oh!—­You have known him a long time?”

“Since I was a little girl.”

“Oh!—­What is he?”