A little flickering smile adorns Dora’s lips for a moment, then, suddenly remembering that smiles do not become her, she relapses into her former calm.

“You flatter me,” she says sweetly.

“I never flatter,” he responds, with telling emphasis.  “But, I can see you are not angry, and so I am emboldened to say plainly, I would gladly see you my cousin’s wife.  Is the idea not altogether abhorrent to you?”

“No.  Oh, no!”

“It is perhaps—­pardon me if I go too far—­even agreeable to you?”

“Mr. Dynecourt,” says Mrs. Talbot, suddenly glancing at him and laying her jeweled fingers lightly on his arm, “I will confess to you that I am tired of being alone—­dependent on myself, as it were—­thrown on my own judgment for the answering of every question that arises.  I would gladly acknowledge a superior head.  I would have some one to help me now and then with a word of advice; in short, I would have a husband.  And,”—­here she lays her fan against her lips and glances archly at him—­“I confess too that I like Sir Adrian as—­well—­as well as any man I know.”

“He is a very fortunate man”—­gravely.  “I would he knew his happiness.”

“Not for worlds,” says Mrs. Talbot, with well-feigned alarm.  “You would not even hint to him such a thing as—­as—­” She stops, confused.

“I shall hint nothing—­do nothing, except what you wish.  Ah, Mrs. Talbot”—­with a heavy sigh—­“you are supremely happy!  I envy you!  With your fascinations and”—­insinuatingly—­“a word in season from me, I see no reason why you should not claim as your own the man whom you—­well, let us say, like; while I—­”

“If I can befriend you in any way,” interrupts Dora quickly, “command me.”

She is indeed quite dazzled by the picture he has painted before her eyes.  Can it be—­is it—­possible, that Sir Adrian may some day be hers?  Apart from his wealth, she regards him with very tender feelings, and of late she has been rendered at times absolutely miserable by the thought that he has fallen a victim to the charms of Florence.

Now if, by means of this man, her rival can be kept out of Adrian’s way, all may yet be well, and her host may be brought to her feet before her visit comes to an end.

Of Arthur Dynecourt’s infatuation for Florence she is fully aware, and is right in deeming that part of his admiration for the beautiful girl has grown out of his knowledge of her money-bags.  Still, she argues to herself, his love is true and faithful, despite his knowledge of her dot, and he will in all probability make her as good a husband as she is likely to find.

“May I command you?” asks Arthur, in his softest tones.  “You know my secret, I believe.  Ever since that last meeting at Brighton, when my heart overcame me and made me show my sentiments openly and in your presence, you have been aware of the hopeless passion that is consuming me.  I may be mad, but I still think that, with opportunities and time, I might make myself at least tolerated by Miss Delmaine.  Will you help me in this matter?  Will you give me the chance of pleading my cause with her alone?  By so doing”—­with a meaning smile—­“you will also give my cousin the happy chance of seeing you alone.”