A few minutes later the servant brought her the hastily written note. It was only a scrap of paper, and unfolding it, she read the two lines:
"My father grants us the ball. We will make it an eventful one.--ADRIEN."
Her face glowed. "We will, indeed," she murmured. "It is a high stake I play for; but it is worth the struggle. Heaven grant me his whole heart! I ask nothing else."
Carefully locking the scrap of paper away, she descended into the morning-room, where Lord Barminster was already seated at the breakfast-table. His grim face softened at the entry of the girl he had always looked upon as a daughter, and loved even more intensely--if that were possible--now that he meant to win her for his son's bride.
"So Adrien has left us again?" he began, as she poured out his coffee.
She flushed slightly at his significant tones.
"Yes," she replied. "Uncle, thank you so much for letting us have the ball----"
"Nonsense, my dear" he returned. "Adrien told me you wanted it, and that was sufficient. Why didn't you ask me yourself? Have I been such a cruel guardian?"
"No, no," she cried, and coming round to him impulsively, she pressed her lips to his forehead. "You've been the dearest uncle in the world. Indeed, no father could have been better."
He smiled at her earnestness.