"Oh, she won't--just yet," the lady murmured softly. "She had better not," she added, with a meaning smile. "We had better not," suggested the harried Sharnbrook at his wits' end, desperately determined not to compromise himself before a witness. "Oh, just as you please," returned Miss Ethel, with a disgusted toss of her head. "If you are so frightened." "Oh, well," he urged feebly; "I don't want to make a fool of myself." "Oh, it is not necessary," the disappointed maiden returned with scorn. "You may look, Dagmar." "I didn't see anything," remarked that lady, with a malicious twinkle in her sharp eyes. "No," said Sharnbrook, manifestly relieved; "I don't see how you could. So the new Lord Quorn is coming down to the Towers," he added, eager to change the subject. "Yes," replied Dagmar glibly, wickedly rejoicing at Ethel's discomfiture. "We are expecting him now. Of course we haven't an idea what he is like. Frightfully colonial, no doubt." "We've heard nothing of Lady Quorn," remarked Ethel, determined not to be behindhand in chatter, and so show her indifference to the love passage that did not come off. Sharnbrook gave a smile of superior knowledge. "There is no Lady Quorn," he said. The effect of his announcement was startling. "No Lady Quorn?" the eager sisters cried in chorus, their expressions indicating design tempered with incredulity. "Quorn's a bachelor," Sharnbrook maintained, beginning to see light behind the dark cloud which for the past fortnight had hung over him. Miss Ethel turned to her sister with indignant reproach. "Dagmar! You said he was married." "I--I understood father to say he was," that disingenuous young lady replied unblushingly. Ethel, well acquainted with her sister's resourcefulness, turned from her in evident disgust. "Are you quite sure, Mr. Sharnbrook?" she inquired with purposeful determination to clutch the truth. "I saw it in the paper," the now brightening youth answered. "There certainly was a report that he was married, or engaged, or something of that sort; but it turns out to be a mistake. He's a young chap, about thirty." "How interesting!" Ethel murmured. "Is he good-looking?" Dagmar inquired, with a suggestion of appropriating the new-found peer if he should be fortunate enough to touch her standard of beauty. "Can't say," Sharnbrook smirked. "Sure to be if he's a lord," he added, with cheap sarcasm. Dagmar crossed to Ethel and slapped her on the shoulder. "My chance, my dear; you're booked," she said in a determined undertone. Ethel gave a repudiatory "Pooh!" and pushed her away. Dagmar walked serenely to the window. "I wonder if that is his lordship coming up the street?" she exclaimed suddenly. Ethel ran to the window. "Where? Which?"