It afforded a
valve for her temper, which had been in an explosive state for some time
against Lord Hartledon, that ungracious son-in-law having actually
forbidden her his house until Maude's illness should be over; telling her
plainly that he would not have his wife worried. Lady Hartledon said
nothing for a day or two; she was watching her husband; watching for
signs of the fancy which had taken possession of her.
He was in her room one dark afternoon, standing with his elbow on the
mantelpiece whilst he talked to her: a room of luxury and comfort it must
have been almost a pleasure to be ill in. Lady Hartledon had been allowed
to get up, and sit in an easy-chair: she seemed to be growing strong
rapidly; and the little red gentleman in the cradle, sleeping quietly,
was fifteen days old.
"About his name, Percival; what is it to be?" she asked. "Your own?"
"No, no, not mine," said he, quickly; "I never liked mine. Choose some
other, Maude."
"What do you wish it to be?"
"Anything."
The short answer did not please the young mother; neither did the dreamy
tone in which it was spoken. "Don't you care what it is?" she asked
rather plaintively.
"Not much, for myself. I wish it to be anything you shall choose."
"I thought perhaps you would have liked it named after your brother," she
said, very much offended on the baby's account.
"George?"
"George, no.
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