Anne had the taper alight, and the wax held to it, the note ready in her hand, when the room-door was thrown open by Mrs. Ashton’s maid.

“Lord Hartledon.”

He came in in a hurried manner, talking fast, making too much fuss; it was unlike his usual quiet movements, and Mrs. Ashton noticed it.  As he shook hands with her, she held the note before him.

“See, Percival!  I was writing to ask you to call upon me.”

Anne had put out the light, and her hand was in Lord Hartledon’s before she well knew anything, save that her heart was beating tumultuously.  Mrs. Ashton made a place for him on the sofa, and Anne quietly left the room.

“I should have been here earlier,” he began, “but I had the steward with me on business; it is little enough I have attended to since my brother’s death.  Dear Mrs. Ashton!  I grieve to hear this poor account of you.  You are indeed looking ill.”

“I am so ill, Percival, that I doubt whether I shall ever be better in this world.  It is my last chance, this going away to a warmer place until winter has passed.”

He was bending towards her in earnest sympathy, all himself again; his dark blue eyes very tender, his pleasant features full of concern as he gazed on her face.  And somehow, looking at that attractive countenance, Mrs. Ashton’s doubts went from her.

“But what I have said is to you alone,” she resumed.  “My husband and children do not see the worst, and I refrain from telling them.  A little word of confidence between us, Val.”

“I hope and trust you may come back cured!” he said, very fervently.  “Is it the fever that has so shattered you?”

“It is the result of it.  I have never since been able to recover strength, but have become weaker and more weak.  And you know I was in ill health before.  We leave on Monday morning for Cannes.”

“For Cannes?” he exclaimed.

“Yes.  A place not so warm as some I might have gone to; but the doctors say that will be all the better.  It is not heat I need; only shelter from our cold northern winds until I can get a little strength into me.  There’s nothing the matter with my lungs; indeed, I don’t know that anything is the matter with me except this terrible weakness.”

“I suppose Anne goes with you?”

“Oh yes.  I could not go without Anne.  The doctor will see us settled there, and then he returns.”

A thought crossed Lord Hartledon:  how pleasant if he and Anne could have been married, and have made this their wedding tour.  He did not speak it:  Mrs. Ashton would have laughed at his haste.

“How long shall you remain away?” he asked.

“Ah, I cannot tell you.  I may not live to return.  If all goes well—­that is, if there should be a speedy change for the better, as the medical men who have been attending me think there may be—­I shall be back perhaps in April or May.  Val—­I cannot forget the old familiar name, you see—­”