I love Anne Ashton better than any one
else in the world. We all loved her. So would you if you knew her. In
my mother's last illness Anne was a greater comfort to her than Laura."
"Should you ever think of a wife on your own score, she may not like this
warm praise of Miss Anne Ashton," said Lady Maude, assiduously drawing,
her hot face bent down to within an inch of the cardboard.
"Not like it? She wouldn't be such an idiot, I hope, as to dislike it. Is
not Anne going to be my brother's wife? Did you suppose I spoke of Anne
in that way?--you must have been dreaming, Maude."
Maude hoped she had been. The young man took his cigar from his mouth,
ran a penknife through the end, and began smoking again.
"That time is far enough off, Maude. _I_ am not going to tie myself up
with a wife, or to think of one either, for many a long year to come."
Her heart beat with a painful throbbing. "Why not?"
"No danger. My wild oats are not sown yet, any more than Val's; only you
don't hear of them, because I have money to back me, and he has not. I
must find a girl I should like to make my wife before that event comes
off, Maude; and I have not found her yet."
Lady Maude damaged her landscape. She sketched in a tree where a chimney
ought to have been, and laid the fault upon her pencil.
"It has been real sport, Maude, ever since I came home from knocking
about abroad, to hear and see the old ladies.
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