"May I say to whom I allude?" he murmurs. "Mrs. Talbot, pardon me if I
have been impertinent in thinking of you as that woman."

A little flickering smile adorns Dora's lips for a moment, then,
suddenly remembering that smiles do not become her, she relapses into
her former calm.

"You flatter me," she says sweetly.

"I never flatter," he responds, with telling emphasis. "But, I can see
you are not angry, and so I am emboldened to say plainly, I would gladly
see you my cousin's wife. Is the idea not altogether abhorrent to you?"

"No. Oh, no!"

"It is perhaps--pardon me if I go too far--even agreeable to you?"

"Mr. Dynecourt," says Mrs. Talbot, suddenly glancing at him and laying
her jeweled fingers lightly on his arm, "I will confess to you that I am
tired of being alone--dependent on myself, as it were--thrown on my own
judgment for the answering of every question that arises. I would gladly
acknowledge a superior head. I would have some one to help me now and
then with a word of advice; in short, I would have a husband. And,"--here
she lays her fan against her lips and glances archly at him--"I confess
too that I like Sir Adrian as--well--as well as any man I know."

"He is a very fortunate man"--gravely. "I would he knew his happiness."

"Not for worlds," says Mrs. Talbot, with well-feigned alarm. "You would