"I have made my choice--welcome her. She is Stella Etheridge, the painter's daughter." But he could not do this; he knew so well how she would have looked at him, saw already with full prophetic insight the calm, serene smile of haughty incredulity with which she would have received his demand. He was silent. "You wonder why I speak to you about this to-night, Leycester?" "A little," he said, with a smile that had very little mirth in it; he felt that he was doing what he had never done before--concealing his heart from her, meeting her with secrecy and evasion, and his proud, finely-tempered mind revolted at the necessity for it. "A little. I was just considering that I had not grown older by a score of years, and had not been doing anything particularly wild. Have they been telling you any dreadful stories about me, mother, and persuading you that matrimony is the only thing to save me from ruin?" and he laughed. The countess colored. "No one tells me any stories respecting you, Leycester, for the simple reason that I should not listen to them. I have nothing to do with--with your outer life, unless you yourself make me part and parcel of it. I am not afraid that you will do anything bad or dishonorable, Leycester." "Thanks," he said, quietly. "Then what is it, mother? Why does this advice press so closely on your soul that you feel constrained to unburden yourself?" "Because I feel that the time has come," she said; "because I have your happiness and welfare so closely at heart that I am obliged to watch over you, and secure them for you if I can." "There never was a mother like you!" he said, gently. "But this is a serious step, my lady, and I am--shall I say slightly unprepared. You speak to me as if I were a sultan, and had but to throw my handkerchief at any fair maid whom I may fancy, to obtain her!" The countess looked at him, and for a moment all her passionate pride in him shone in her eyes. "Is there no one to whom you think you could throw that handkerchief, Leycester?" she asked, significantly. His face flushed, and his eyes glowed. At that moment he felt the warm lips of his girl-love resting on his own. "That is a blunt question, my lady," he said; "would it be fair to reply, fair to her, supposing that there be one?" "In whom should you confide but in me?" said the countess, with a touch of hauteur in her voice, hauteur softened by love. He looked down and turned the ruby ring on his finger. If he could but confide in her! "In whom else but in me, from whom you have, I think, had few secrets? If your choice is made, you would come to me, Leycester? I think you would; I cannot imagine your acting otherwise. You see I have no fear"--and she smiled--"no fear that your choice would be anything but a good and a wise one. I know you so well, Leycester. You have been wild--you yourself said it, not I!" "Yes," he said, quietly.