“Yes, indeed, come in; you are doubly welcome coming with so much beauty and fragrance,” said her uncle, smiling.
Rupert arose as she entered, and asked with an arch smile:
“What enamored swain has been guilty of the extravagance of lavishing such costly flowers upon you, Lillian?”
“Lord Ernest Rathburn is the donor; he has exquisite taste. I wish you could have seen the box when it came,” the girl replied, with a conscious drooping of her brilliant eyes.
“Lord Ernest Rathburn!” repeated Rupert in a peculiar tone, which brought the angry color to Lillian’s cheek.
Lord Ernest was a young nobleman with a large revenue, but possessing far less brains than mustache, and who was regarded with contempt by all manly young men, on account of his effeminacy and excesses.
“I wish,” he added, “that you could meet a friend of mine, Lillian; you will, I hope, before very long. Lord Ernest would sink into insignificance by comparison.”
“And who may this paragon of manly excellence be, Mr. Hamilton, if I may inquire?” Lillian asked, with a toss of her head.
“Harry Webster, the young man with whom I traveled, last winter, in America.”
“I despise Americans,” retorted Miss Linton, with considerable asperity.