Rhoda frowned a little. Pretty as Lady Sarah was, the younger girl felt that a better, a more sincere and noble-natured person than Lady Sarah appeared to be would have been a better match for the generous and good Sir Robert who was her own idol. She went downstairs slowly, resented the quick and almost supercilious manner in which Lady Sarah appeared to sum her up at a glance while shaking hands, and decided angrily that Sir Robert was throwing himself away. The baronet himself, however, was evidently by no means of the same way of thinking. There was adoration in his mild grey eyes as he watched the brilliant little brunette, there was tenderness in the tone of his voice as he spoke to her, and it was abundantly clear that his infatuation was complete. Jack Rotherfield, meanwhile, was less attentive to Rhoda than he had been before the appearance of Lady Sarah. Rhoda did not mind this, but she remarked it, and, sitting silent for the most part, she noticed a good deal more, as the afternoon wore on, that might have escaped the notice of a less observant or more talkative person. For one thing she saw, and felt ashamed of seeing, that something like a secret understanding existed between Jack Rotherfield and Lady Sarah; their eyes would meet with a sudden look of sympathy or mutual amusement from time to time, as, for instance, when Sir Robert declared that nothing would induce him to replace the old furniture and fittings of the house for more modern ones. Rhoda felt ashamed of herself for thinking that it looked as if Lady Sarah had already discussed that very subject with Sir Robert’s ward, and in a manner not very sympathetic with the views of her future husband. Indeed it was clear to the most careless eyes that there was a great gulf between the tastes of the Marquis’s lovely daughter, with her French toilette and her brilliant if scarcely sincere manners, and steady-going, quiet Sir Robert Hadlow with his grave demeanour and quiet habits. Rhoda found herself wondering what sort of a household theirs would be, and which of the two would finally get the upper hand, as it was plain that, in such an ill-assorted couple, one or other must eventually do. It seemed natural to suppose it would be the little, wilful, spoilt beauty, as it was easy to see she was not in love with Sir Robert, who, by keeping her head, would become the arbiter of the household destinies. The baronet seemed, indeed, to be like wax in her hands; and he was far too much in love to see that the sweet looks and pretty smiles, the little words of tenderness, and the gestures of caressing cajolery, were dictated by anything less than love equal to his own.