She was thrusting herself upon Lord Hartledon,
knowing that in his true heart it was another that he loved, not her.
Yes, she knew that full well. He admired her beauty, and was marrying
her; marrying partly in pique against Anne Ashton; partly in blindfold
submission to the deep schemes of her mother, brought to bear on his
yielding nature. All the injustice done to Anne Ashton was in that moment
beating its refrain upon her heart; and a thought crossed her--would God
not avenge it? Another time she might have smiled at the thought as
fanciful: it seemed awfully real now. "I might give Val up yet," she
murmured; "there's just time."
She did not act upon the suggestion. Whether it was her warning, or
whether it was not, she allowed it to slip from her. Hartledon's broad
lands and coronet resumed their fascination over her soul; and when her
door was tried, Lady Maude had lost herself in that famous Spanish
chateau we have all occupied on occasion, touching the alterations she
had mentally planned in their town-house.
"Goodness, Maude, what do you lock yourself in for?"
Maude opened the door, and the countess-dowager floundered in. She was
resplendent in one of her old yellow satin gowns, a white turban with a
silver feather, and a pink scarf thrown on for ornament. The colours
would no doubt blend well by candlelight.
"Come, Maude. There's no time to be lost.
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