It was Mr. Ingelow who gave her the information, and the occasion was a brilliant ball. Mollie had often heard of the Welsh baronet, but this was the first time she had encountered him at a ball or party.
"I thought that Sir Roger Trajenna never accepted invitations," she said, opening and shutting her fan. "This is the first time I ever saw him at a private party."
"I think I know the reason," responded Mr. Ingelow. "Rumor sets him down as the last in Miss Dane's list of killed and wounded."
"So I have heard," said Mollie, coolly; "but it is too good to be true. I should dearly love to be my lady and live in a Welsh castle."
"With sixty-five years and a hoary head for a husband?"
"How painfully accurate you are! With his countless millions and his ancestral castles, what does a little disparity of years signify?"
"Miss Dane," asked Mr. Ingelow, very earnestly, "would you accept that old man if he asked you?"
"My dear Mr. Ingelow, what a dreadfully point-blank question! So very embarrassing! I thought you knew better!"
"I beg your pardon. But, Miss Dane, as a sincere friend, may I ask an answer?"
"Well, then, as a friend, I can't say for certain, but I am afraid—I am very much afraid I would say—"