“We heard a great deal of him in London this season,” Mrs. Brooks went on.

Miss Cora Brooke laughed.

“We heard that at least half a dozen people were determined to marry him,” she remarked with pretty scorn.  “I should think that to meet a girl who was indifferent might be good for him.”

“Don’t be too indifferent, Cora,” said her mother, with ingenuous ineptness.

It was a very stupid bit of revelation, and Miss Brooke’s eyes flashed.  If Emily Fox-Seton had been a sharp woman, she would have observed that, if the role of indifferent and piquant young person could be made dangerous to Lord Walderhurst, it would be made so during this visit.  The man was in peril from this beauty from Cincinnati and her rather indiscreet mother, though upon the whole, the indiscreet maternal parent might unconsciously form his protection.

But Emily only laughed amiably, as at a humorous remark.  She was ready to accept almost anything as humour.

“Well, he would be a great match for any girl,” she said.  “He is so rich, you know.  He is very rich.”

When they reached Mallowe, and were led out upon the lawn, where the tea was being served under embowering trees, they found a group of guests eating little hot cakes and holding teacups in their hands.  There were several young women, and one of them—­a very tall, very fair girl, with large eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, and with a lovely, limp, and long blue frock of the same shade—­had been one of the beauties of the past season.  She was a Lady Agatha Slade, and Emily began to admire her at once.  She felt her to be a sort of added boon bestowed by kind Fate upon herself.  It was so delightful that she should be of this particular house-party—­this lovely creature, whom she had only known previously through pictures in ladies’ illustrated papers.  If it should occur to her to wish to become the Marchioness of Walderhurst, what could possibly prevent the consummation of her desire?  Surely not Lord Walderhurst himself, if he was human.  She was standing, leaning lightly against the trunk of an ilex-tree, and a snow-white Borzoi was standing close to her, resting his long, delicate head against her gown, encouraging the caresses of her fair, stroking hand.  She was in this attractive pose when Lady Maria turned in her seat and said: 

“There’s Walderhurst.”

The man who had driven himself over from the station in the cart was coming towards them across the grass.  He was past middle life and plain, but was of good height and had an air.  It was perhaps, on the whole, rather an air of knowing what he wanted.