It was Ascot week, the crowning glory of
the year, and Lesbia and her chaperon had secured tickets for the Royal
enclosure--or it may be said rather that Lesbia had secured them--for
the Master of the Royal Buckhounds might have omitted poor old Lady
Kirkbank's familiar name from his list if it had not been for that
lovely girl who went everywhere under the veteran's wing.
Six weeks, and Lesbia's appearance in society had been one perpetual
triumph; but as yet nothing serious had happened. She had had no offers.
Half a dozen men had tried their hardest to propose to her--had sat out
dances, had waylaid her in conservatories and in back drawing-rooms, in
lobbies while she waited for her carriage--had looked at her piteously
with tenderest declarations trembling on their lips; but she had
contrived to keep them at bay, to strike them dumb by her coldness, or
confound them by her coquetry; for all these were ineligibles, whom Lady
Lesbia Haselden did not want to have the trouble of refusing.
Lady Kirkbank was in no haste to marry her _protegee_--nay, it was much
more to her interest that Lesbia should remain single for three or four
seasons, and that she, Lady Kirkbank, might have the advantage of close
association with the young beauty, and the privilege of spending Lady
Maulevrier's money.
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