The heir of Wyndward, the hope of the house, the heir to an ancient name and a princely estate, had plighted his troth to the niece of a painter--a girl, be she beautiful as she might, without either rank or wealth, to recommend her to his parents! He might have chosen from the highest and the wealthiest; the highest and the wealthiest had been, so to speak, at his feet. He knew that no dearer wish existed in his mother's heart of hearts than that he should marry and settle. Well, he was going to marry and settle. But what a marriage and settlement it would be! Instead of adding luster to the already illustrious name, instead of adding power to the already influential race of Wyndward, it would, in the earl and countess's eyes, in the opinion of the world, be nothing but a mesalliance. He paused in the corridor, the two footmen eying him with covert and respectful attention, and a smile curved his lips as he pictured to himself the manner in which the proud countess would receive his avowal of love for Stella Etheridge, the painter's niece. Even as it was, he was quite conscious that he had gone very far indeed this evening toward provoking the displeasure of the countess. He had almost neglected the brilliant gathering for the sake of this unknown girl; he had left his mother's oldest friends, even Lady Lenore herself, to follow Stella. How would they receive him? With a smile half-defiant, half anticipatory of amusement, he motioned to the servants to withdraw the curtain, and entered the room. Some of the ladies had already retired; Lady Longford had gone for one, but Lady Lenore still sat on her couch attended by a circle of devoted adherents. As he entered, the countess, without seeming to glance at him, saw him, and noticed the peculiar expression on his face. It was the expression which it always wore when he was on the brink of some rashly mad exploit. Leycester had plenty of courage--too much, some said. He walked straight up to the countess, and stood over her. "Well, mother," he said, almost as if he were challenging her, "what do you think of her?" The countess lifted her serene eyes and looked at him. She would not pretend to be ignorant of whom he meant. "Of Miss Etheridge?" she said. "I have not thought about her. If I had, I should say that she was a very pleasant-looking girl." "Pleasant-looking!" he echoed, and his eyebrows went up. "That is a mild way of describing her. She is more than pleasant." "That is enough for a young girl in her position," said the countess. "Or in any," said a musical voice behind him, and Lord Leycester, turning round, saw Lady Lenore. "That was well said," he said, nodding. "She is more than pleasant," said Lady Lenore, smiling at him as if he had won her warmest approbation by neglecting her all the evening. "She is very pretty, beautiful, indeed, and so--may I say the word, dear Lady Wyndward?--so fresh!" The countess smiled with her even brows unclouded.