‘What a speech!’ cried Lady Maulevrier, delighted, her cheeks glowing, her eyes kindling; ’what a noble fellow the speaker must be!  Oh, Mary, I must tell you a secret.  I loved that man’s father.  Yes, my dear, I loved him fondly, dearly, truly, as you love that young man of yours; and he was the only man I ever really loved.  Fate parted us.  But I have never forgotten him—­never, Mary, never.  At this moment I have but to close my eyes and I can see his face—­see him looking at me as he looked the last time we met.  He was a younger son, poor, his future quite hopeless in those days; but it was not my fault we were parted.  I would have married him—­yes, wedded poverty, just as you are going to marry this Mr. Hammond; but my people would not let me; and I was too young, too helpless, to make a good fight.  Oh, Mary, if I had only fought hard enough, what a happy woman I might have been, and how good a wife.’

‘You were a good wife to my grandfather, I am sure,’ faltered Mary, by way of saying something consolatory.

A dark frown came over Lady Maulevrier’s face, which had softened to deepest tenderness just before.

‘A good wife to Maulevrier,’ she said, in a mocking tone.  Well, yes, as good a wife as such a husband deserved.  ’I was better than Caesar’s wife, Mary, for no breath of suspicion ever rested upon my name.  But if I had married Ronald Hollister, I should have been a happy woman; and that I have never been since I parted from him.’

‘You have never seen the present Lord Hartfield, I think?’

’Never; but I have watched his career, I have thought of him.  His father died while he was an infant, and he was brought up in seclusion by a widowed mother, who kept him tied to her apron-strings till he went to Oxford.  She idolised him, and I am told she taught herself Latin and Greek, mathematics even, in order to help him in his boyish, studies, and, later on, read Greek plays and Latin poetry with him, till she became an exceptional classic for a woman.  She was her son’s companion and friend, sympathised with his tastes, his pleasures, his friendships; devoted every hour of her life, every thought of her mind to his welfare, his interests, walked with him, rode with him, travelled half over Europe, yachted with him.  Her friends all declared that the lad would grow up an odious milksop; but I am told that there never was a manlier man than Lord Hartfield.  From his boyhood he was his mother’s protector, helped to administer her affairs, acquired a premature sense of responsibility, and escaped almost all those vices which make young men detestable.  His mother died within a few months of his majority.  He was broken-hearted at losing her, and left Europe immediately after her death.  From that time he has been a great traveller.  But I suppose now that he has taken his seat in the House of Lords, and has spoken a good many times, he means to settle down and take his place among the foremost men of his day.  I am told that he is worthy to take such a place.’