"I do not think that will be very difficult," laughingly replied his companion.
Their ride was a long one. On their return Beatrice was slightly tired, and went straight to her own room. She wrote a long letter to Dora, who must have smiled at her description of Lord Airlie. He was everything that was true, noble, chivalrous, and grand. The world did not hold such another. When the letter was finished it was time to dress for dinner.
"Which dress will you wear, miss?" asked the attentive maid.
"The prettiest I have," said the young girl, her bright face glowing with the words she had just written.
What dress could be pretty enough for him? One was found at last that pleased her—a rich, white crepe. But she would wear no jewels—nothing but crimson roses. One lay in the thick coils of her dark hair, another nestled against her white neck, others looped up the flowing skirt.
Beatrice's toilet satisfied her—this, too, with her lover's fastidious taste to please. She stood before the large mirror, and a pleased smile overspread her face as she saw herself reflected therein.
Suddenly she remembered the letter. The morning-dress still hung upon a chair. She took the envelope from the pocket.
"Shall you want me again, Miss Earle?" asked her maid.
"No," replied Beatrice, breaking the seal; "I am ready now."
The girl quitted the room, and Beatrice, standing before the mirror, drew out a long, closely written letter, turning presently, in amazement, to the signature, wondering who could be the writer.