If she had known that Lord Tancred had already refused her hand and
that her uncle was merely counting upon his own unerring knowledge of
human nature--and Lord Tancred's nature in particular--she might have
felt humiliated, instead of full of impotent rage.

The young man, for his part, had arrived exactly on the stroke of eight,
a rare effort of punctuality for him. Some underneath excitement to see
his friend Markrute's niece had tingled in his veins from the moment he
had left the house.

What sort of a woman could it be who would be willing to marry a
perfect stranger for the sake of his title and position? The
quarter-of-an-hour's wait had not added to his calm. So when the door
had eventually opened for her entry he had glanced up with intense
interest, and had then drawn in his breath as she advanced up the room.
The physical part of the lady at all events was extremely delectable.

But when he was presented and his eyes met hers he was startled by the
look of smoldering, somber hate he saw in them.

What could it all mean? Francis must have been romancing. Why should she
look at him like that, if she were willing to marry him? He was piqued
and interested.

She spoke not a word as they went down to dinner, but he was no raw
youth to be snubbed thus into silence. His easy, polished manner soon
started a conversation upon the usual everyday things. He received "Yes"
and "No" for answers. The railway magnate on her other side was hardly
more fortunate, until the entrées were in full swing, then she unfroze a