“My humble house is not worthy my lady’s presence, I dare say,” she remarked.  “After the magnificence of barrack life and the splendor of Hunsden Hall, I scarcely wonder she can not stoop to your mother’s jointure house.  A lady in her position must draw the line somewhere.”

“You are unjust, mother,” her son said, striving to speak calmly.  “You always were unjust to Harriet.  If you will permit us, we will both do ourselves the pleasure of dining with you to-morrow.”

“It shall be precisely as the Prince and Princess of Kingsland please.  My poor board will be only too much honored.”

“It is natural, I suppose,” he thought, riding homeward.  “The contrast between Kingsland Court and The Grange is striking.  She is jealous and angry and hurt—­poor mother!  Harrie must come with me to-morrow, and try to please her.”

But when to-morrow came Harrie had a headache, and the baronet was obliged to go alone.

There was an ominous light in his mother’s eyes, and a look of troubled inquiry in Mildred’s face that told him a revelation was coming.

His mother’s eyes transfixed him the instant he appeared.

“I thought your wife was coming?”

“Harriet had a shocking bad headache.  She has been ill all day,” he replied, hastily.  “It was quite impossible for her to leave her room.  She regrets——­”

“That will do, Everard!” His mother rose as she spoke, with a short laugh.  “I understand it all.  Don’t trouble yourself to explain.  Let us go to the dining-room—­dinner waits.”

“But, my dear mother, it is really as I say.  Harrie is ill.”

“Ill?  Yes, ill of a guilty conscience, perhaps!  Such a mother—­such a daughter!  I always knew how this mad mesalliance would end.  I don’t know that I am surprised.  I don’t know that I regret it.  I am only sorry that my son’s wife should be the first to disgrace the name of Kingsland!”

“Disgrace?  Take care, mother!  That is an ugly word.”

“It is.  But, however ugly, it is always best to call these things by their right names.”

“These things!  What under heaven do you mean?”

“Do you really need to ask?” she said, with cold contempt.  “Are you indeed so blind where this woman is concerned?  Why, my son’s wife is the talk of the town, and my son sits here and asks me what I mean?”

“Mamma! mamma!” Mildred said, imploringly.  “Pray don’t!  You are cruel!  Don’t say such dreadful things!”

“Your mother is cruel, and unjust, and unnatural!” he said, in a hard, hoarse voice.  “Do you tell me what she means, Mildred.”

“Don’t ask me, Everard!” Mildred said, in distress.  “We have heard cruel, wicked stories—–­false, I know—­about Harrie and—­and a stranger—­an American gentleman—­who is stopping at the Blue Bell Inn.”

“Yes, Everard,” his mother said, pity for him, hatred of his wife, strangely mingled in look and tone, “your bride of a month is the talk of the place.  The names of Lady Kingsland and this unknown man go whispered together from lip to lip.”