ce
itself looked ugly then.

"Why did he say this to me?" she asked of her fevered heart. "Was it said
with a purpose? Has he found out that I _love_ him? that my shallow old
mother is one of the subtlest of the anglers? and that--"

"What on earth are you at with your drawing, Maude?"

"Oh, I have grown sick of the sketch. 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. She already hated
Anne Ashton with a fierce and bitter hatred. She turned sick with envy
when, in the morning visit that was that day paid by the Ashtons, she saw
that Anne was really what Lord Hartledon had described her--one of the
sweetest, most lovable, most charming of girls; almost without her equal
in the world for grace and goodness and beauty. She turned more sick with
envy when, at dinner afterwards, to which the Ashtons came, Lord
Hartledon devoted himself to them, almost to the neglect of his other
guests, lingering much with Anne.

The countess-dowager marked it also, and was furious. Nothing could be
urged against them;