“Lord Hartledon,” was the grave rejoinder, “I am unable to give you advice in this.  Your conduct is indefensible.”

“Don’t ‘Lord Hartledon’ me:  I won’t stand it.  Carr?”

“Well?”

“If you bring up against me a string of reproaches lasting until night will that mend matters?  I am conscious of possessing but one true friend in the world, and that’s yourself.  You must stand by me.”

“I was your friend; never a truer.  But I believed you to be a man of honour.”

Hartledon lifted his hat from his brow; as though the brow alone were heavy enough just then.  At least the thought struck Mr. Carr.

“I have been drawn unwittingly into this, as I have into other things.  I never meant to do wrong.  As to dishonour, Heaven knows my nature shrinks from it.”

“If your nature does, you don’t,” came the severe answer.  “I should feel ashamed to put forth the same plea always of ‘falling unwittingly’ into disgrace.  You have done it ever since you were a schoolboy.  Talk of the Elster folly! this has gone beyond it.  This is dishonour.  Engaged to one girl, and corresponding with her; making hourly love for weeks to another!  May I inquire which of the two you really care for?”

“Anne—­I suppose.”

“You suppose!”

“You make me wild, talking like this.  Of course it’s Anne.  Maude has managed to creep into my regard, though, in no common degree.  She is very lovely, very fascinating and amiable.”

“May I ask which of the two you intend to marry!” continued the barrister, neither suppressing nor attempting to soften his indignant tones.  “As this country’s laws are against a plurality of wives, you will be unable, I imagine, to espouse them both.”

Hartledon looked at him, beseechingly, and a sudden compassion came over Mr. Carr.  He asked himself whether it was quite the way to treat a perplexed man who was very dear to him.

“If I am severe, it is for your sake.  I assure you I scarcely know what advice to give.  It is Miss Ashton, of course, whom you intend to make Lady Hartledon?”

“Of course it is.  The difficulty in the matter is getting clear of Maude.”

“And the formidable countess-dowager.  You must tell Maude the truth.”

“Impossible, Carr.  I might have done it once; but the thing has gone on so long.  The dowager would devour me.”

“Let her try to.  I should speak to Maude alone, and put her upon her generosity to release you.  Tell her you presumed upon your cousinship; and confess that you have long been engaged to marry Miss Ashton.”

“She knows that:  they have both known it all along.  My brother was the first to tell them, before he died.”

“They knew it?” inquired Mr. Carr, believing he had not heard correctly.

“Certainly.  There has been no secret made of my engagement to Anne.  All the world knows of that.”

“Then—­though I do not in the least defend or excuse you—­your breaking with Lady Maude may be more pardonable.  They are poor, are they not, this Dowager Kirton and Lady Maude?”