Every place she appeared in public this distinguished-looking gentleman hovered in the background like her shadow.
"Who is that venerable old party," she demanded, impatiently, "that haunts me like an uneasy ghost?
Can I be a lost daughter of his, with a strawberry mark somewhere, or do I bear an unearthly resemblance to some lovely being he murdered in early life?
Who is he ?" And the answer came, nearly taking away Cricket's breath: "Sir Roger Trajenna, the great Welsh baronet, worth nobody knows how many millions, and with castles by the dozen in his own land of mountains." 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--" "Miss Dane, permit me!" exclaimed a voice at her elbow--"Sir Roger Trajenna, Miss Dane." Miss Dane turned calmly round to her hostess and _the_ guest of the evening, and graciously received the venerable baronet's profound bow.
At the same instant the music of a waltz struck up, to the jealous artist's infinite relief.
"Now, then, Miss Dane, if you are ready," said Mr.Ingelow, rather imperiously.
"Excuse me, Mr.Ingelow," replied Miss Dane, with infinite calm; "I am really too much fatigued for this waltz.