"Let us go," she said. "I know who it is. It is Lord Leycester."
"Not Lord Leycester Wyndward," exclaimed Frank. "Not really! I should like to see him. Do you know him, Stella?"
"Yes—a little," said Stella, shyly. "A little."
"Yes, it is Lord Leycester," said Stella, and the color came to her face.
"I have heard so much about Lord Leycester," said Frank, eagerly; "everybody knows him in London. He is an awful swell, isn't he?"
Stella smiled.
"You will teach me the most dreadful slang, Frank," she said. "Is he such a 'swell,' as you call him?"
"Oh, awful; there isn't anything that he doesn't do. He drives a coach and four, and he's the owner of two of the best race horses in England, and he's got a yacht—the 'Gipsy,' you know—and, oh, there's no end to his swelldom. And you know him?"
"Yes," said Stella, and her heart smote her, that she could not say: "I know him so well that I am engaged to be married to him." But she could not; she had promised, and must keep her promise.