"No; a countess," said the pretty little fairy, with a gay grimace. She looked over Agatha's shoulder and beckoned to Lord Ambert, who was still "in waiting," to come to her.
He came. A middle-sized, well-set-up man of about forty, with a rather supercilious mouth and small eyes. He looked quite a gentleman, however; which a great many earls do not, and, of course, there he scored. He was a poor man for his rank in life, and was desirous of impounding the numerous thousands in which Miss Firs-Robinson lay, as it were, enwrapped. He never forgot his dignity, however, when with her. He gave her quite to understand that she was by birth many degrees below zero, and that he was a star in her firmament.
In the meantime Elfrida, who had a very acute mind of her own, saw straight through him. In a sense he amused her, and, after all, she knew very well who would be mistress and master after her marriage with him. Not Ambert, anyway. Her money should be securely settled on herself; she was quite decided about that. She was quite decided also about her marriage with him. She had lived some little time in America, as has been said, and had learned the value of our English lords; so she had arranged with herself very early in life never to die until she could have a title carved upon her tombstone. Ambert had come in quite handy. He was the only unmarried earl within a radius of a tremendous number of miles, so, of course, he would have to do. It was a pity he was so old—that he was a little bald—that his expression was so unpleasant. But he was an earl. She would be Lady Ambert; and if he thought he would have it all his own way afterwards—why, she would show him. She hadn't the least doubt about his proposing to her. She gave herself no trouble on that head; and, indeed, she used to know great mirth sometimes, when he had been specially laborious over his efforts to prove to her that he had twenty or forty heiresses in his eye, who would all be ready at a moment's notice to accept his title, his debts, and his bald head.
For all that, she was determined to marry him. This, however, did not prevent her indulging in small flirtations here and there. There were several young officers in the barracks in the next town who were literally at her feet, and there was the curate, Tom Blount, who every one knew was a very slave to her every caprice.
"Ah, Mr. Blount," said she, as she passed him now on her way to the conservatory. "Here? And you haven't asked me for a single dance."
"I don't dance," said Tom Blount. "The bishop doesn't like it, you know, and to ask you to sit out a dance with me would be more than I dare venture."
He smiled at her out of two honest blue eyes. And she smiled back at him out of two very dishonest ones, though all four were much of the same colour.
"'If thy heart fail thee,'" quoted she daringly.
"Well, I shan't let it fail me," said the curate suddenly. His smile was somewhat forced, however. "Will you sit out one with me?"
"You don't deserve it," said she. "But—-"