I am not in a drawing mood to-day,
mamma."
"And how fierce you were looking," pursued the countess-dowager, who had
darted in at rather an inopportune moment for Maude--darting in on people
at such moments being her habit. "And that was the sketch Hartledon asked
you to do for him from the old painting!"
"He may do it himself, if he wants it done."
"Where is Hartledon?"
"I don't know. Gone out somewhere."
"Has he offended you, or vexed you?"
"Well, he did vex me. He has just been assuring me with the coolest air
that he should never marry; or, at least, not for years and years to
come. He told me to notice what a heap of girls were after him--or their
mothers for them--and the fun he had over it, not being a marrying man."
"Is that all? You need not have put yourself in a fatigue, and spoilt
your drawing. Lord Hartledon shall be your husband before six months are
over--or reproach me ever afterwards with being a false prophetess and a
bungling manager."
Maude's brow cleared. She had almost childlike confidence in the tact of
her unscrupulous mother.
But how the morning's conversation altogether rankled in her heart,
none save herself could tell: ay, and in that of the dowager. Although
Anne Ashton was the betrothed of Percival Elster, and Lord Hartledon's
freely-avowed love for her was evidently that of a brother, and he had
said he should do all he could to promote the marriage, the strongest
jealousy had taken possession of Lady Maude's heart.
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