"He! I know nothing of him. He came in with the Maxwells. I saw Sir Sandy introduce him to Madame de Castella."
"Where could he have found that French marigold at this season of the year?" wondered Rose.
"Oh, Miss Maxwell has all sorts of odd flowers in that box of hers, four feet square, which she calls her conservatory," returned the archdeacon's daughter. "He must have found it there."
"Lord John," cried Rose, summarily arresting Lord John Seymour, who was passing, and whom she had never seen but once in her life, and that months before, "who is that handsome man I saw you talking with just now?"
"It is my cousin's husband, Miss Darling," lisped Lord John, who had an impediment in his speech. "Young Marlborough."
"I don't speak of him," cried Rose, impatiently, an association dyeing her cheeks. "A tall, pale man, features very refined."
"You must mean St. John."
"Who?" repeated Rose.
"Frederick St. John. Brother to St. John of Castle Wafer."
Rose Darling drew a deep breath in her utter astonishment. "And so that's Frederick St. John! I have heard of him and his beauty."