"He is like Elster; not like you, Hartledon," cried a young man, whose
name was Carteret.
"_Was_, you mean, Carteret," corrected Lord Hartledon, in tones of sad
regret. "There was a great family resemblance between us all, I believe."
"He died from an accident, did he not?" said Mr. O'Moore, an Irishman,
who liked to be called "The O'Moore."
"Yes."
Percival Elster turned to his brother, and spoke in low tones. "Edward,
was any particular person suspected of having fired the shot?"
"None. A set of loose, lawless characters were out that night, and--"
"What are you all looking at here?"
The interruption came from Lady Kirton, who was sailing into the room
with Maude. A striking contrast the one presented to the other. Maude in
pink silk and a pink wreath, her haughty face raised in pride, her dark
eyes flashing, radiantly beautiful. The old dowager, broad as she was
high, her face rouged, her short snub nose always carried in the air, her
light eyes unmeaning, her flaxen eyebrows heavy, her flaxen curls crowned
by a pea-green turban. Her choice attire was generally composed, as
to-day, of some cheap, flimsy, gauzy material bright in colour. This
evening it was orange lace, all flounces and frills, with a lace scarf;
and she generally had innumerable ends of quilted net flying about her
skirts, not unlike tails. It was certain she did not spend much money
upon her own attire; and how she procured the costly dresses for Maude
the latter appeared in was ever a mystery.
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