Alpha Book

At the presidential levees, on public promenades and drives, Miss Dane
had noticed a tall, white-haired, aristocratic-looking gentleman
attentively watching her as if fascinated. 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.


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