“Oh, yes; I have plenty of others, but these look best with this light blue—they give a dash of color which it seems to need, and I prefer them.” “Well, never mind; you do look very nice, and,” she added, partly to herself, “perhaps he will not notice.” Isabel created quite a sensation upon entering the great drawing-room at Dunforth, for there were many people present whom she had never met before, and all were quite anxious to see the bride Sir Charles had chosen. His lordship was very gracious to her, and seemed desirous to atone for his rudeness on the night of Lady Peasewell’s drawing-room, though Isabel noticed that a spasm of pain contracted his face when his eye first fell upon her as she was presented. He introduced her to Lady Dunforth, who completely surprised her by turning to a gentleman at her side, and saying: “Miss Coolidge, allow me to present my grandson, Mr. Dredmond.” She looked up astonished, and the color flamed into her cheeks at his cold salutation and the well-remembered, scornful curl of his lips, as his critical eye took in every item of her costume from head to foot. He, too, had recognized those lovely corals, with their diamond garnishings, and he longed to wrest them from her hair and bosom, and denounce her as the false-hearted woman he knew she was. He, then, was the grandson of the Earl of Dunforth. Isabel had known all along that he was heir to an earldom, but supposing it to be a nobleman by the name of Dredmond, she had never made any inquiries about the matter. A feeling of chagrin came over her that she had not played her cards differently, for she knew the Dunforth wealth far exceeded that of the Randals. A sense of fear, too, arose in her heart lest he should strive to influence Sir Charles against her. Lady Randal had told her that she and Lord Dunforth were cousins, consequently Sir Charles and Adrian were connected, and might he not tell him what he knew? Later in the evening she was introduced to Lady Ruxley, whose acquaintance she had long desired to make, and whose favor she was most anxious to secure. The old lady had arrived at the castle that morning by special invitation, and was to remain a few days to visit Lady Dunforth, who was a favorite with her. She was a very peculiar body, this old lady of eighty, with her wrinkled, withered face, her scant, wiry, gray hair, her restless black eyes keen and sharp as a briar. She was bent nearly double, and walked with a cane, and when she tried to talk to or look at anybody she twisted her neck and shoulders into all manner of contortions. She was little as well as old—she could not have weighed over ninety pounds—and in her straight, old-fashioned black satin gown she made Isabel think of some witch or sprite of evil. She felt anything but comfortable beneath those keen, bright eyes, which seemed to read her through and through at a glance, and her blunt way of asking questions disconcerted her not a little.