“And Sir Stephen?”

She laughed.

“His task is much simpler and easier than mine.  He just goes down to his political club and subscribes so many thousand pounds towards the party expenses.  The other night he gave them—­but I must not tell the secrets of the Tories even to you, Mr. Howard.  But it was a very large sum.  It is always done that way, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” he assented.  “It must be; for, come to think of it, a man isn’t made a peer simply because he brews good beer; and a great many of our peers were and are good brewers, you see.  Oh, it’s all right, it pans out very satisfactorily, as the miners say.  And so Stafford will be the future Earl of—­”

“Earl of Highcliffe,” she said.  “He has declined anything less than an earldom.  He has given so much.  Sir Stephen owns some land there, and—­and some of his people come from there.”

Howard laughed.

“I see.  Been there since they came over with the Conqueror.  The Herald’s College will have no difficulty in finding a coat-of-arms.  Something with a Kaffir and a railway in it.”

She smiled tolerantly.

“You always make fun of everything, Mr. Howard.  If only Stafford would care—­”

She sighed, and a moment afterwards her hand went to her lip with the gesture of a nervous school-girl.  She had heard Stafford’s voice in the hall.

He came in and greeted her gravely, and, Howard being present, merely took her hand.

“You two conspiring as usual?” he said, with a smile, with the smile which indicates a mind from which mirth has been absent for some time.

“Yes,” said Howard; “we have been plotting the cotillon and very properly arranging that the prize shall go to the wisest, the nicest, and best-looking man in the room.  I need not tell you his name?” He spread his hand on his heart, and bowed with mock complacency.  “And now I will go and find Sir Stephen and get a cigarette before the battle begins. Au revoir.”

When he had gone, almost before the door had closed on him, Maude moved closer to Stafford, and with a mixture of shyness and eagerness, put her arm round his neck.

“How good of you to come so early!” she murmured, in the voice which only a woman in love can use, and only when she is addressing the man she loves.  “You did not come to Richmond?  Never mind!  Stafford, you know that I do not wish to hamper or bind you, do you not?—­Are you well?” she broke off, scanning his face earnestly, anxiously.  “Quite well,” he responded.  “Why do you ask, Maude?”

“I thought you looked tired, pale, that you have looked so for some weeks,” she said, her eyes seeking his.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I am quite well.  The hot weather makes one feel rather limp, I suppose.  At any rate, there is nothing else the matter with me but a fit of laziness.”

“As if you were ever lazy!” she said, with a smile.