“She evidently shuns me,” he says in an aggrieved tone to her one evening, sinking into the seat beside hers.  “Except a devotion to her that is singularly sincere, I know of nothing about me that can be regarded by her as an offense.  Yet it appears to me that she dislikes me.”

“There I am sure you are wrong,” declares the widow, tapping his arm lightly with her fan.  “She is but a girl—­she hardly knows her own mind.”

“She seems to know it pretty well when Adrian addresses her,” he says, with a sullen glance.

At this Mrs. Talbot can not repress a start; she grows a little pale, and then tries to hide her confusion by a smile.  But the smile is forced, and Arthur Dynecourt, watching her, reads her heart as easily as if it were an open book.

“I don’t suppose Adrian cares for her,” he goes on quietly.  “At least”—­here he drops his eyes—­“I believe, with a little judicious management, his thoughts might be easily diverted into another channel.”

“You think so?” asks Mrs. Talbot faintly, trifling with her fan.  “I can not say I have noticed that his attentions to her have been in any way particular.”

“Not as yet,” agrees Dynecourt, studying her attentively; “and if I might be open with you,” he adds, breaking off abruptly and assuming an air of anxiety—­“we might perhaps mutually help each other.”

“Help each other?”

“Dear Mrs. Talbot,” says Dynecourt softly, “has it never occurred to you how safe a thing it would be for my cousin Sir Adrian to marry a sensible woman—­a woman who understands the world and its ways—­a woman young and beautiful certainly, but yet conversant with the convenances of society?  Such a woman would rescue Adrian from the shoals and quicksands that surround him in the form of mercenary friends and scheming mothers.  Such a woman might surely be found.  Nay, I think I myself could put my hand upon her, if I dared, at this moment.”

Mrs. Talbot trembles slightly, and blushes a good deal, but says nothing.

“He is my nearest of kin,” goes on Dynecourt, in the same low impassive voice.  “Naturally I am interested in him, and my interest on this point is surely without motive; as, were he never to marry, were he to leave no heir, were he to die some sudden death”—­here a remarkable change overspreads his features—­“I should inherit all the land you see around you, and the title besides.”

Mrs. Talbot is still silent.  She merely bows her head in assent.

“Then, you see, I mean kindly toward him when I suggest that he should marry some one calculated to sustain his rank in the world,” continues Dynecourt.  “As I have said before, I know one who would fill the position charmingly, if she would deign to do so.”

“And who?” falters Dora Talbot nervously.

“May I say to whom I allude?” he murmurs.  “Mrs. Talbot, pardon me if I have been impertinent in thinking of you as that woman.”