Getting rid of her
at last, he turned the key of the door, and wished her a hundred miles
away.
The wish bore fruit. In a few days some news she heard regarding her
eldest son--who was a widower now--took the dowager to Ireland, and Lord
Hartledon wished he could as easily turn the key of the house upon her as
he had turned that of the room.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE SWORD SLIPPED.
Summer dust was in the London streets, summer weather in the air, and the
carriage of that fashionable practitioner, Sir Alexander Pepps, still
waited before Lord Hartledon's house. It had waited there more frequently
in these later weeks than of old.
The great world--_her_ world--wondered what was the matter with her: Sir
Alexander wondered also. Perhaps had he been a less courtly man he might
have rapped out "obstinacy," if questioned upon the point; as it was, he
murmured of "weakness." Weak she undoubtedly was; and she did not seem to
try in the least to grow strong again. She did not go into society now;
she dressed as usual, and sat in her drawing-room, and received visitors
if the whim took her; but she was usually denied to all; and said she was
not well enough to go out. From her husband she remained bitterly
estranged. If he attempted to be friendly with her, to ask what was
ailing her, she either sharply refused to say, or maintained a persistent
silence.
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