It had come to pass that the house at Hendon had become specially the
residence of Lord Hampstead, who would neither have lodgings of his
own in London or make part of the family when it occupied Kingsbury
House in Park Lane. He would sometimes go abroad, would sometimes
appear for a week or two at Trafford Park, the grand seat in
Yorkshire. But he preferred the place, half town half country, in
the neighbourhood of London, and here George Roden came frequently
backwards and forwards after the ice had been broken by a first
visit. Sometimes the Marquis would be there, and with him his
daughter,--rarely the Marchioness. Then came the time when Lady
Frances declared boldly to her stepmother that she had pledged
her troth to the Post Office clerk. That happened in June, when
Parliament was sitting, and when the flowers at Hendon were at their
best. The Marchioness came there for a day or two, and the Post
Office clerk on that morning had left the house for his office work,
not purposing to come back. Some words had been said which had caused
annoyance, and he did not intend to return. When he had been gone
about an hour Lady Frances revealed the truth.

Her brother at that time was two-and-twenty. She was a year younger.
The clerk might perhaps be six years older than the young lady. Had
he only been the eldest son of a Marquis, or Earl, or Viscount;
had he been but an embryo Baron, he might have done very well. He
was a well-spoken youth, yet with a certain modesty, such a one as
might easily take the eye of a wished-for though ever so noble a
mother-in-law. The little lords had learned to play with him, and
it had come about that he was at his ease in the house. The very
servants had seemed to forget that he was no more than a clerk, and
that he went off by railway into town every morning that he might
earn ten shillings by sitting for six hours at his desk. Even the
Marchioness had almost trained herself to like him,--as one of those
excrescences which are sometimes to be found in noble families, some
governess, some chaplain or private secretary, whom chance or merit
has elevated in the house, and who thus becomes a trusted friend.
Then by chance she heard the name "Frances" without the prefix
"Lady," and said a word in haughty anger. The Post Office clerk
packed up his portmanteau, and Lady Frances told her story.

Lord Hampstead's name was John. He was the Honourable John Trafford,
called by courtesy Earl of Ham