You can hardly fancy the
bedecked old figure that she made. The O'Moore nearly laughed out, as he
civilly turned to answer her question.
"We were looking at this portrait, Lady Kirton."
"And saying how much he was like Val," put in young Carteret, between
whom and the dowager warfare also existed. "Val, which was the elder?"
"George was."
"Then his death made you heir-presumptive," cried the thoughtless young
man, speaking impulsively.
"Heir-presumptive to what?" asked the dowager snapping at the words.
"To Hartledon."
"_He_ heir to Hartledon! Don't trouble yourself, young man, to imagine
that Val Elster's ever likely to come into Hartledon. Do you want to
shoot his lordship, as _he_ was shot?"
The uncalled-for retort, the strangely intemperate tones, the quick
passionate fling of the hand towards the portrait astonished young
Carteret not a little. Others were surprised also; and not one present
but stared at the speaker. But she said no more. The pea-green turban and
flaxen curls were nodding ominously; and that was all.
The animus to Val Elster was very marked. Lord Hartledon glanced at his
brother with a smile, and led the way back to the other drawing-room. At
that moment the butler announced dinner; the party filed across the hall
to the fine old dining-room, and began finding their seats.
"I shall sit there, Val. You can take a chair at the side.
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