"Yes, everybody will be pleased, I imagine--papa and mamma especially. I don't see how papa can make the faintest objection in any way. He must be gratified." I think of Sir George's rent-roll, and have the words, "I should think so, indeed," upon the tip of my tongue, but, being desirous of keeping up friendly relations with Dora, refrain from uttering them. She evidently takes her good fortune as a matter of course, having ever rated herself at a high price, and believes she has got her bare deserts--no more. "I hope you--that is, I hope he will be very good to you," I say, making the correction in time. "I hope we will be very good to each other. Indeed, I see nothing to prevent our being quite happy and--comfortable. Don't you think he appears very fond of me?" "More than that: I think he appears to love you very dearly." "Yes, I really think he does," says my sister, running her fingers lazily through her silken yellow hair. "And you, Dora--do you love him?" "Of course, dear. Would I marry him else? Am I the sort of person to sell myself for mere money's sake?" Indignation of the mild and virtuous order is in her tone. "No," says Dora, calmly looking me fair in the eyes, "I would not marry a man unless I loved him--not if he had the mines of Golconda." This ennobling sentiment is, I feel, aimed at me, and justly judge it will be unwise to press the matter farther: so I say, "I am so glad, darling!" but say it very weakly. "Nevertheless," goes on Dora, after a moment's pause, "as I do love him, it is very fortunate he should be so well off. Yesterday he told me he had twenty thousand pound a year. Rather more than you have, dear, is it not?" No, Dora has not yet forgiven me. "A great deal more," I say, warmly; "we have only fifteen thousand. But then, Dora, it was only to be expected you would make a far better match than I could." "Well, yes--perhaps so," admits Dora, casting an admiring glance at her own pretty shell-pink face as it smiles back at her from an opposite mirror. The door opens, and Marmaduke comes in. "Oh, 'Duke," I cry, rising, "just fancy! Dora is--but you shall guess my news--what is she?" "That is a rather embarrassing question," says he, smiling. "Were I to tell you all that Dora is in my eyes, we would get no sleep to-night." Dora laughs, and I say:--- "Nonsense! A list of her perfections would be no news; we all know them. Tell me what you think has occurred to her since this morning." "I think she has become engaged to George Ashurst," returns 'Duke, coolly. "Why, you foolish child, do you call that news? Ashurst has told every one in the house of his good luck by this time. If I were you, Dora, I would breakfast in my own room to-morrow morning. You will never be able to stand all the congratulations." "How can he be so absurd?" murmurs Dora, for once in her life genuinely confused, and a rich red coloring her cheeks.