Emmeline thought that Mary was very pertinacious in her badinage, and was going to bid her hold her tongue; but she observed that Herbert blushed, and walked away without further answer. He went to the further end of the long room, and there threw himself on to a sofa. "Could it be that it was all settled?" thought Emmeline to herself. She followed him to the sofa, and sitting beside him, took hold of his arm. "Oh, Herbert! if there is anything to tell, do tell me." "Anything to tell!" said he. "What do you mean?" "Oh! you know. I do love her so dearly. I shall never be contented to love any one else as your wife--not to love her really, really with all my heart." "What geese you girls are!--you are always thinking of love, and weddings, and orange-blossoms." "It is only for you I think about them," said Emmeline. "I know there is something to tell. Dear Herbert, do tell me." "There is a young bachelor duke coming here to-morrow. He has a million a year, and three counties all his own; he has blue eyes, and is the handsomest man that ever was seen. Is that news enough?" "Very well, Herbert. I would tell you anything." "Well; tell me anything." "I'll tell you this. I know you're in love with Clara Desmond, and I'm sure she's in love with you; and I believe you are both engaged, and you're not nice at all to have a secret from me. I never tease you, as Mary does, and it would make me so happy to know it." Upon this he put his arm round her waist and whispered one word into her ear. She gave an exclamation of delight; and as the tears came into her eyes congratulated him with a kiss. "Oh dear, oh dear! I am so happy!" she exclaimed. "Hush--sh," he whispered. "I knew how it would be if I told you." "But they will all know to-morrow, will they not?" "Leave that to me. You have coaxed me out of my secret, and you are bound to keep it." And then he went away well pleased. This description of delight on his sister's part was the first instalment of that joy which he had promised himself from the satisfaction of his family. Lady Fitzgerald had watched all that had passed, and had already learned her mistake--her mistake in that she had prophesied that no immediate proposal was likely to be made by her son. She now knew well enough that he had made such a proposal, and that he had been accepted. And this greatly grieved her. She had felt certain from the few slight words which Sir Thomas had spoken that there were valid reasons why her son should not marry a penniless girl. That conversation, joined to other things, to the man's visit, and her husband's deep dejection, had convinced her that all was not right. Some misfortune was impending over them, and there had been that in her own early history which filled her with dismay as she thought of this.