Mr. Ingelow, at this point, always fell into such a morass of pros and cons that his brain grew dazed, and he gave the problem up altogether.  But the great, incontrovertible fact remained—­he was headlong in love with Mollie, and had followed her to Washington expressly to tell her so.

“For if I wait, and she returns to New York,” mused Mr. Ingelow, “I will have Oleander and Sardonyx both neck and neck in the race.  Here there is a fair field and no favor, and here I will try my luck.”

But Mr. Ingelow was mistaken, for here in his “fair field” appeared the most formidable rival he could possibly have had—­a rival who seemed likely to eclipse himself and Oleander and Sardonyx at one fell swoop.

At the presidential levees, on public promenades and drives, Miss Dane had noticed a tall, white-haired, aristocratic-looking gentleman attentively watching her as if fascinated.  Every place she appeared in public this distinguished-looking gentleman hovered in the background like her shadow.

“Who is that venerable old party,” she demanded, impatiently, “that haunts me like an uneasy ghost?  Can I be a lost daughter of his, with a strawberry mark somewhere, or do I bear an unearthly resemblance to some lovely being he murdered in early life?  Who is he?”

And the answer came, nearly taking away Cricket’s breath: 

“Sir Roger Trajenna, the great Welsh baronet, worth nobody knows how many millions, and with castles by the dozen in his own land of mountains.”

It was Mr. Ingelow who gave her the information, and the occasion was a brilliant ball.  Mollie had often heard of the Welsh baronet, but this was the first time she had encountered him at a ball or party.

“I thought that Sir Roger Trajenna never accepted invitations,” she said, opening and shutting her fan.  “This is the first time I ever saw him at a private party.”

“I think I know the reason,” responded Mr. Ingelow.  “Rumor sets him down as the last in Miss Dane’s list of killed and wounded.”

“So I have heard,” said Mollie, coolly; “but it is too good to be true.  I should dearly love to be my lady and live in a Welsh castle.”

“With sixty-five years and a hoary head for a husband?”

“How painfully accurate you are!  With his countless millions and his ancestral castles, what does a little disparity of years signify?”

“Miss Dane,” asked Mr. Ingelow, very earnestly, “would you accept that old man if he asked you?”

“My dear Mr. Ingelow, what a dreadfully point-blank question!  So very embarrassing!  I thought you knew better!”

“I beg your pardon.  But, Miss Dane, as a sincere friend, may I ask an answer?”

“Well, then, as a friend, I can’t say for certain, but I am afraid—­I am very much afraid I would say—­”

“Miss Dane, permit me!” exclaimed a voice at her elbow—­“Sir Roger Trajenna, Miss Dane.”