"I think," he replied slowly, "that sooner or later it must be mine." "Do you care much for it?" she asked. "Old people are always inquisitive, Adrian--you must forgive me." "I care for it in one sense," he replied; "but I cannot say honestly that title or rank give me any great pleasure. I would rather be Adrian Darcy, than Baron Chandon of Chandon. But, Lady Vaughan, I will tell you something that I long for, that I covet and desire." "What is it?" she asked, looking at the handsome face, flushed, eager, and excited. "It is the love of Hyacinth Vaughan," he answered. "I love her--I have never seen anyone so simple, so frank, so _spirituelle_. I love her as I never thought to love any woman. If I do not marry her, I will never marry anyone. I have your permission, I know; but she is so shy, so coy, I am afraid to speak to her. Do you think I have any chance, Lady Vaughan?" She raised her fair old face to his. "I do," she replied. "Thanks to our care, the girl's heart is like the white leaf of a lily. No shadow has ever rested on her. She has not been flirted with and talked about. I tell you honestly, Adrian, that the lilies in the garden are not more pure, more fair, or fresh than she." "I know it," he agreed; "and, heaven helping me, I will so guard and shield her that no shadow shall ever fall over her." "She has never had a lover," continued Lady Vaughan. "Her life has been a most secluded one." "Then I shall try to win her," he said; and when he had gone away Lady Vaughan acknowledged to herself that the very desire of her heart was near being gratified. CHAPTER XIII. It may be that Hyacinth Vaughan read Adrian Darcy's determination in his face, for she grew so coy and frightened that had he not been brave he would have despaired. If by accident she raised her eyes and met his glance her face burned and her heart beat; when he spoke to her it was with difficulty she answered him. She had once innocently and eagerly sought his society--she had loved to listen to him while he was talking to Lady Vaughan--she had enjoyed being with him as the flowers enjoy the sunlight. But something was awake in her heart and soul which had been sleeping until now. When she saw Adrian, her first impulse was to turn aside and fly, no matter whither, because of the sweet pain his presence caused her. He met her one morning in the broad corridor of the hotel; she looked fresh and bright, fair and sweet as the morning itself. Her face flushed at his coming, she stopped half undecided whether to go on or turn and fly. "Hyacinth," he said, holding out his hand in greeting, "it seems an age since I have had any conversation with you. Where do you hide yourself? What are you always doing?" Then he paused and looked at her--admiration, passion, and tenderness unspeakable in his eyes. She little knew how fair a picture she presented in her youthful loveliness and timidity--how graceful and pure she was in her girlish embarrassment.