“Ah! Then you do not intend to announce your engagement just yet,” remarked Sir William, with some surprise. “No, sir. At Mrs. Alexander’s request, we shall delay it for the present, until she secures the property of which I have already spoken.” “How much of an heiress is your pretty _fiancée_ going to be, Rupert?” his guardian asked. “I cannot tell. I do not even know of what this property consists,” the young man answered, thoughtfully. “I am afraid there is something a little mysterious about these ladies. Doesn’t it strike you so?” inquired Sir William, gravely, yet without a suspicion of the wonderful truth. Rupert knew there was, but he was not going to confess it, and he replied, evasively: “I do not imagine there is anything but what will soon be satisfactorily explained to us all.” Lady Linton, hearing all this, and knowing so much more than either Rupert or her brother, grew deadly faint as she listened and realized how near she stood to the verge of a terrible exposure. Just then there came a brisk tap on the library door, and the next moment Lillian put her bright face into the room, and looking as lovely as the morning itself in her white flannel wrapper, fastened at the waist with cherry ribbons, and with her hands full of jacqueminot roses. Her face assumed a look of surprise as she saw Rupert there, and she regarded him with searching curiosity. “Pardon me, Uncle Will,” she said, flushing; “I did not know that you were engaged with anyone; I have just received a box of flowers, and came to arrange some for your table. May I come in? I won’t be long.” “Yes, indeed, come in; you are doubly welcome coming with so much beauty and fragrance,” said her uncle, smiling. Rupert arose as she entered, and asked with an arch smile: “What enamored swain has been guilty of the extravagance of lavishing such costly flowers upon you, Lillian?” “Lord Ernest Rathburn is the donor; he has exquisite taste. I wish you could have seen the box when it came,” the girl replied, with a conscious drooping of her brilliant eyes. “Lord Ernest Rathburn!” repeated Rupert in a peculiar tone, which brought the angry color to Lillian’s cheek. Lord Ernest was a young nobleman with a large revenue, but possessing far less brains than mustache, and who was regarded with contempt by all manly young men, on account of his effeminacy and excesses. “I wish,” he added, “that you could meet a friend of mine, Lillian; you will, I hope, before very long. Lord Ernest would sink into insignificance by comparison.” “And who may this paragon of manly excellence be, Mr. Hamilton, if I may inquire?” Lillian asked, with a toss of her head. “Harry Webster, the young man with whom I traveled, last winter, in America.” “I despise Americans,” retorted Miss Linton, with considerable asperity. “That is rather a sweeping assertion; isn’t it, my dear?” asked Sir William, looking a trifle amused.