“Always,” echoed the baronet, with a stately bend.

“You are very kind.  Good-day, Sir Roger Trajenna.  Congratulations on so eminently suitable a match would be preposterous.  Farewell, Miss Dane.  I, too, know how to remember!”

With the words he passed out.  Sir Roger turned with something like a frown to his bride-elect.

“What does it mean, Mollie?”

Mollie laughed—­such a gay, girlish laugh!

“Can’t you see, Sir Roger?  They are nearly frantic with jealousy, the three of them.  What fun it was to see them sitting there and scowling at one another!”

“But they threatened, did they not?” the baronet asked, still frowning.

“Did they?  They said they would remember, and I think it is very likely they will.  Poor fellows!  It was natural, and I don’t mind.”

“And when am I to speak to your guardian now?”

“As soon as you please—­after luncheon, if you like.  I don’t suppose he’ll object.”

“Certainly not,” Sir Roger said, proudly; “and then, my dearest, when am I to have my lovely little wife?”

“Oh, I don’t know!  It isn’t well to be in any hurry.  Wait a year or two.”

“A year or two!” cried Sir Roger, in much the same tone as if she had said a century or two.  “Impossible—­utterly impossible, Mollie!”

“Well, then, a month or two.  I am not in any hurry to be married, and I don’t see why you should be.”

“My darling little Mollie, if you loved me half as much as I love you, you would understand.  And you will really be mine in a month?”

“Or two.  Yes, if you insist upon it.  If I am to be Lady Trajenna first or last, it may as well be first, I suppose.”

“And you will not change your mind?”

“Of course not,” said Mollie, indignantly.  “When Mollie Dane gives her word, the laws of the Medes and—­what’s their names?—­are nothing to it.  Don’t tease, Sir Roger.  When I promise a thing, it’s as good as done.”

Mollie danced away to the piano, and held her infatuated baronet spell-bound until luncheon time.

At table Mr. and Mrs. Walraven met them, and immediately after the meal the baronet formally requested the pleasure of a private interview.

“Can he really be going to ask for Mollie?” thought Mr. Walraven.  “Upon my word, if he is, this is quite a new role for me—­playing the part of venerable parent, and that to a white-haired gentleman who numbers a round score more years than myself.”

He led the way to his study, followed by the baronet.  And Sir Roger came to the point at once, calmly, proudly, with grave dignity.

“The disparity of years is great, I know,” he said.  “But if she is willing to overlook that objection, you surely may.  There is no other drawback that I am aware of.  A Trajenna, of Trajenna, might mate with the highest in England.”

He lifted his white, erect head haughtily, and looked Carl Walraven full in the face.  Mr. Walraven held out his hand and grasped the baroness’s cordially.