Miss Ethel turned to her sister with indignant reproach. "Dagmar! You said he was married."
"I—I understood father to say he was," that disingenuous young lady replied unblushingly.
Ethel, well acquainted with her sister's resourcefulness, turned from her in evident disgust. "Are you quite sure, Mr. Sharnbrook?" she inquired with purposeful determination to clutch the truth.
"I saw it in the paper," the now brightening youth answered. "There certainly was a report that he was married, or engaged, or something of that sort; but it turns out to be a mistake. He's a young chap, about thirty."
"How interesting!" Ethel murmured.
"Is he good-looking?" Dagmar inquired, with a suggestion of appropriating the new-found peer if he should be fortunate enough to touch her standard of beauty.
"Can't say," Sharnbrook smirked. "Sure to be if he's a lord," he added, with cheap sarcasm.
Dagmar crossed to Ethel and slapped her on the shoulder. "My chance, my dear; you're booked," she said in a determined undertone.
Ethel gave a repudiatory "Pooh!" and pushed her away. Dagmar walked serenely to the window. "I wonder if that is his lordship coming up the street?" she exclaimed suddenly.
Ethel ran to the window. "Where? Which?"