“Yes, I had. There is no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. There is a certain Mr. Lacour--you’ll meet him here to-morrow afternoon--a young man whom I have known for some time as a friend of the Bruce Pages; their place is at Hanford, five miles off. He’s a brother of Sir Miles Lacour. Well, Mr. Vincent Lacour has called on me often in town, and a week ago he lunched with us here; he’s staying at the Bruce Pages’ again. I rather like him, and I believe there’s not a bit of harm in him really; but he seems to have been terribly wild, and he’s quarrelled with his brother, the baronet. I don’t suppose he’s anything left to live on, and Sir Miles refuses to help him any more. We learn all this from young Lacour himself; he’s remarkably frank, embarrassingly so at times. Now I half fancy he’s made an impression on Ada; certainly I never knew her talk so freely with any one, or show such healthy signs of interest. It wouldn’t be surprising; he’s a charming young fellow, decidedly handsome, and the strangest talker. I fancied Ada looked pleased when I mentioned that he was coming to the garden party tomorrow. I don’t know whether he ought to be put in the girl’s way, but I had to ask the Bruce Pages, and I couldn’t leave him out very well. Now you see my reason. I have never before been obliged to think of such a thing. It would be unjust to Ada to leave her in the dark as to her true position.” “This Mr. Lacour is doubtless aware of the circumstances?” “Without a doubt.” “And you think he might----” “It is not impossible. He must be in desperate straits.” “How old is the individual?” “About three-and-twenty, I think. He had ten thousand pounds of his own when he came of age.” “Wherewith he has purchased experience. He must be rich in that article.” “I’m afraid he is; but I confess I like him. I don’t think he would be a bad husband. I believe his oats are sown.” “I can, of course, have no opinion; but the situation is an interesting one.” They turned about, and walked a stretch of the lawn in silence. “I wish it were over,” Isabel said with a sigh. “I wish the poor girl had a good husband and all were well settled. I am tired of playing the farce.” “You look forward with--with equanimity?” Robert said hesitatingly, with a glance at her face. “More, with eagerness. I want to throw off a weight. I shall be the happiest woman in England.” “On three hundred a year, cousin Isabel?” ventured Asquith. “On three hundred a year, cousin Robert. I wish I had never had more. Come, we must go back to Rhoda. Isn’t Rhoda a dear?” CHAPTER V.