"He
said I should find you the dearest girl I ever met; and I do so. May I
call you 'Anne'?"
Not for a moment did Miss Ashton answer. Truth to say, far from
reciprocating the sudden fancy boasted of by Maude, she had taken an
unaccountable dislike to her. Something of falsity in the tone, of sudden
_hardiesse_ in the handsome black eyes, acted upon Anne as an instinctive
warning.
"As you please, Lady Maude."
"Thank you so much. Hartledon whispered to me the secret about you and
Val--Percival, I mean. Shall you accomplish the task, think you?"
"What task?"
"That of turning him from his evil ways."
"His evil ways?" repeated Anne, in a surprised indignation she did not
care to check. "I do not understand you, Lady Maude."
"Pardon me, my dear Anne: it was hazardous so to speak _to you_. I ought
to have said his thoughtless ways. Quant a moi, je ne vois pas la
difference. Do you understand French?"
Miss Ashton looked at her, really not knowing what this style of
conversation might mean. Maude continued; she had a habit of putting
forth a sting on occasion, or what she hoped might be a sting.
"You are staring at the superfluous question. Of course it is one in
these _French_ days, when everyone speaks it. What was I saying? Oh,
about Percival. Should he ever have the luck to marry, meaning the
income, he will make a docile husband; but his wife will have to keep him
under her finger and thumb; she must be master as well as mistress, for
his own sake.
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