"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!" the old lady repeated slowly, while her dark, brilliant eyes seemed to burn down into Prue’s inmost soul. "The same that fought the duel with Colonel O’Keefe?" "Surely," murmured Prue, "I could do no better than give myself to the man who killed my traducer. If Colonel O’Keefe misunderstood or misinterpreted a piece of girlish bravado—was I to blame? And if he dared to comment disparagingly upon what he did not understand, and make a public jest of a woman who had only played a harmless joke upon him—you, dear Grandmother, would be the last to reproach the gentleman who drew sword in her vindication." "Thereby leading every one to suppose that there was something to vindicate," retorted Lady Drumloch. "If the marriage really takes place, it will put a complete quietus upon ill-natured tongues, but bethink you how they will wag if this should prove another of your _affaires manquées_!" "I am glad that you approve, Madam," said Prue, with an air of the deepest respect, as she again sank gracefully down in a most profound curtsey. "I said nothing about approval," replied her grandmother sternly. "I know your Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—a Whig—a renegade, whose father was a good Catholic and a ’King’s man.’ The son would have made a fitting husband for your father’s daughter if he had been loyal to his father’s king—but you know well that I would rather see you the wife of the least of Jacobites than the greatest of Whigs. Go your own wilful way and do not pretend to ask my approval." "I am not married to him yet," said Prue, who had not been unprepared for a vigorous protest from her ancestress, and for obvious reasons desired to placate her. "Nor would I contemplate such a step until my dear grandmother’s recovery set me free from anxiety. And now, if your ladyship will permit us to kiss your hand, we will withdraw, as we grieve to hear that your physician has forbidden you all excitement." During the whole interview the two girls had remained standing—not being invited to seat themselves, nor venturing to do so without permission. As they withdrew after saluting the tapering, ivory fingers of the invalid, she called after them, with more graciousness than she had yet shown, "You may return in the evening and read me Mr. Pope’s poem. I have had it these three weeks and could not bring myself to let Lowton stumble through it. ’Twill give me something to think of besides an old woman’s gout and gruel." *CHAPTER III* *SIR GEOFFREY’S ARRIVAL* Lady Drumloch was not really half so ill as she fancied herself, and no better medicine could have been prescribed to hasten her convalescence than the gaiety and cheerfulness that her two granddaughters infused into the atmosphere of the little house in Mayfair, as soon as they had recovered from the fatigues of their journey.