"Beyond all doubt. What a question for you to ask! Did you ever hear of an Irishman who wasn't of good family? My father"--with a mischievous smile--"was a direct descendant of King O'Toole or Brian Boru,--I don't know which; and if the king had only got his own, my dear brother would at this moment be dispensing hospitality in a palace." "You terrify me," said Mr. Potts, profoundly serious. "Why, the blood of all the Howards would be weak as water next to yours. Not that there is anything to be surprised at; for if over there was any one in the world who ought to be a princess it is----" "Molly, will you sing us something?" Lady Stafford breaks in, impatiently, at this juncture, putting a stop to Mr. Potts's half-finished compliment. * * * * * "Molly, I want to speak to you for a moment," Luttrell says next day, coming upon her suddenly in the garden. "Yes?" coldly. "Well, hurry, then; they are waiting for me in the tennis-ground." "It seems to me that some one is always waiting for you now when I want to speak to you," says the young man, bitterly. "For me?" with a would-be-astonished uplifting of her straight brows. "Oh, no, I am not in such request at Herst. I am ready to listen to you at any time; although I must confess I do not take kindly to lecturing." "Do I lecture you?" "Do not let us waste time going into details: ask me this all-important question and let me be gone." "I want to know"--severely, yet anxiously--"whether you really meant all you said yesterday morning?" "Yesterday morning!" says Miss Massereene, running all her ten little white fingers through her rebellious locks, and glancing up at him despairingly. "Do you really expect me to remember all I may have said yesterday morning? Think how long ago it is." "Shall I refresh your memory? You gave me to understand that if our engagement came to an end you would be rather relieved than otherwise." "Did I? How very odd! Yes, by the bye, I do recollect something of the kind. And you led up to it, did you not?--almost asked me to say it, I think, by your unkind remarks." "Let us keep to the truth," says Luttrell, sternly. "You know such an idea would never cross my mind. While you--I hardly know what to think. All last night you devoted yourself to Shadwell." "That is wrong; he devoted himself to me. Besides, I spoke a little to Mr. Potts." "Yes, I suppose you could not be satisfied to let even an idiot like Potts go free." "Idiot! Good gracious! are you talking of your friend Mr. Potts? Why, I was tired to death of hearing his praises sung in my ears morning, noon, and night at Brooklyn; and now, because I am barely civil to him, he must be called an idiot! That is rather severe on him, is it not?"