have been teasing her," he returned, with composure. "Maude says
all sorts of things when she's put out."

"Perhaps she does," was the retort; "but she meant this, for she showed
her teeth when she said it. You can't blind me; and I have seen ever
since I came here that there was something wrong between you and Maude."

For that matter, Val had seen it too. Since the night of his wife's
fainting-fit she had scarcely spoken a word to him; had appeared as if
she could not tolerate his presence for an instant in her room. Lord
Hartledon felt persuaded that it arose from resentment at his having
refused to allow her to see the stranger. He rose from his seat.

"There's nothing wrong between me and Maude, Lady Kirton. If there were,
you must pardon me for saying that I could not suffer any interference in
it. But there is not."

"Something's wrong somewhere. I found her just now sobbing and moaning
over Eddie, wishing they were both dead, and all the rest of it. If she
goes on like this for nothing, she's losing her senses, that's all."

"She'll be all right when she's stronger. Pray don't worry her. She'll be
well soon, I daresay. And now I shall be glad if you'll leave me, for I
am very busy."

She did not leave him any the quicker for the request, but stayed to
worry him, as it was in her nature to worry every one. 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 u