By sundry subtle indications, half a word, a quick glance, Letty gathered that her new friend was _not_ one of her aunt’s disciples--indeed, rather the reverse! Here was one strong, if secret, bond between them, a rooted dislike of the same individual: and on this slender foundation, did Letty Glyn venture to build her home! At first, when ‘the idea’ presented itself to her mind--the idea, that Mr. Blagdon wished to marry her--she thrust it from her in dismay. This was not the husband she looked for, when, with her face buried in the counterpane, she had made to herself a sobbing, smothered, vow. And yet, whispered the persistent ‘idea,’ he was kind, and he was strong; he would give her a home of her own, and protect her from Aunt Dorothy! And Aunt Dorothy was so bent upon this marriage. The girl shivered as she thought of her future, if her tyrant were disappointed! Poor Uncle Tom did not count; truth held before her, the remorseless fact, that she had to choose between her aunt, and Mr. Blagdon--Which was it to be? Naturally Mrs. Fenchurch had enlarged upon Blagdon’s position and wealth; when she spoke of Sharsley and its splendours she became positively eloquent. “The Scrope heirlooms, my dear child, are worth a fortune, and beyond the reach of American dollars. Old Scrope made them over with the place; the miniatures are marvellous, and there are two Nankin jars there that a Chinaman would worship on his knees! If Hugo asks you to marry him, Letty, you will be the luckiest girl in England! Has he said anything?” she enquired after a moment’s silence. “No,” faltered the victim, with scarlet cheeks. “Nothing.” “_What?_” The question was like a bullet. “But I--I--I think he wishes to, Aunt Dorothy.” “Then let him speak, for Heaven’s sake!” urged Mrs. Fenchurch with authoritative emphasis. “Do remember, my dear, that you have only your little pension, and if anything were to happen to your uncle,” she paused expressively, leaving the question to be answered by the imagination of her companion. One morning shortly after this conversation, Letty found herself in the drawing-room alone with Blagdon, and he spoke. “Look here, Miss Glyn,” he began abruptly, “I’m no good at beating about the bush.” Letty glanced up at him interrogatively. She was sitting in the window, knitting golf stockings for her uncle. “You can bet it’s not to see your aunt I’ve been coming over here, eh? It’s to see _you_!” Letty looked down: her fingers were shaking visibly. “I am older than you, and all that sort of thing,” he continued airily; “but I’m not a bad sort, as my sister can tell you, and I want to know if you will marry me. Come now, don’t turn away like that, if it’s going to be ‘yes.’ Give me your hand.” Suddenly she heard her aunt’s voice in the hall; it sounded unusually sharp, and dictatorial, and in a panic of terror, Letty extended a cold, limp little hand, on which Blagdon instantly imprinted a lingering, and burning kiss.