"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?"