"Dear Beatrice, how very good of you!" replied Lord Airlie; adding presently: "we have twenty minutes before the breakfast bell will ring; let us make the best of them."
The morning was fresh, fair, and calm, a soft haze hanging round the trees.
"Beatrice," said Lord Airlie, "you see the sun shining there in the high heavens. Three weeks ago I should have thought it easier for that same sun to fall than for me to win you. I can scarcely believe that my highest ideal of woman is realized. It was always my ambition to marry some young girl who had never loved any one before me. You never have. No man ever held your hand as I hold it now, no man ever kissed your face as I kissed it last night."
As he spoke, a burning flush covered her face. She remembered Hugh Fernely. He loved her better for the blush, thinking how pure and guileless she was.
"I fear I shall be a very jealous lover," he continued. "I shall envy everything those beautiful eyes rest upon. Will you ride with me this morning? I want to talk to you about Lynnton—my home, you know. You will be Lady Airlie of Lynnton, and no king will be so proud as I shall."
The breakfast bell rang at last. When Beatrice entered the room, Lady Earle went up to her.
"Your papa has told me the news," she said. "Heaven bless you, and make you happy, dear child!"
Lionel Dacre guessed the state of affairs, and said but little. The chief topic of conversation was the ball, interspersed by many conjectures on the part of Lord Earle as to why the post-bag was so late.
It did not arrive until breakfast was ended. Lord Earle distributed the letters; there were three for Lord Airlie, one to Lady Earle from Dora, two for Lionel, none for Lillian. Lord Earle held in his hand a large common blue envelope.
"Miss Beatrice Earle," he said; "from Brookfield. What large writing! The name was evidently intended to be seen."