"Yes," he said, quietly and gravely, "the world will say that I should have asked him first; but we cannot always control our hearts, they will have their way sometimes, and mine has been under bolt and bar so long—so long."
"So long?" she murmured, blushing and turning away from him.
"Almost from the day when I first saw you—do you remember the time? Poor Leicester was alive then, and I poured all my hopes and fears into his ears. Ethel, I thought it hard that I should be debarred from hope; you were an earl's daughter—as you are now—and I was penniless, struggling, unknown."
"But it is all altered now," breathed Ethel, pressing his hand. "You are famous, and—and not poor."
Ethel rose, intoxicated with her new born happiness, to meet Lady Lackland, who was seen approaching.
"Ah, Mr. Fairfax," said the countess, eying him suspiciously with a cold smile. "How good of you to take care of Lady Boisdale. I suppose you have been cooling yourselves. Ethel, my dear, the carriage is waiting; I don't know where your papa is."
There was a crush in the street, and while Bertie, bareheaded, was placing the ladies in the carriage the earl and Lord Fitz came up.
Mr. Murpoint was with them, serene and self-composed as usual, though the crush and confusion were bewildering.
"Here you are!" said the earl. "We were just going to look for you. Fitz has been seeing the Mildmays to their brougham."
Howard Murpoint closed the door as the two gentlemen entered the carriage and stood with his dark eyes, half closed, fixed upon Ethel.