“How thin she looks!” exclaimed Maude, as she rejoined her husband, and took his arm.

“Who looks thin?”

“Miss Ashton.  I wonder she did not fling your hand away, instead of putting her own into it!”

“Do you wish to see the Trianon?  We shall be late.”

“Yes, I do wish to see it.  But you need not speak in that tone:  it was not my fault that we met her.”

He answered never a syllable.  His lips were compressed to pain, and his face was hectic; but he would not be drawn into reproaching his wife by so much as a word, for the sort of taste she was displaying.  The manner in which he had treated Miss Ashton and her family was ever in his mind, more or less, in all its bitter, humiliating disgrace.  The worst part of it to Val was, that there could be no reparation.

The following day Lord Hartledon and his wife took their departure from Paris; and if anything could have imparted especial gratification on his arriving in London at the hired house, it was to find that his wife’s mother was not in it.  Val had come home against his will; he had not wished to be in London that season; rather would he have buried himself and his haunting sense of shame on the tolerant Continent; and he certainly had not wished his wife to make her debut in a small hired house.  When he let his own, nothing could have been further from his thoughts than marriage.  As to this house—­Lady Kirton had told her daughter she would be disappointed in it; but when Maude saw its dimensions, its shabby entrance, its want of style altogether, she was dismayed.  “And after that glowing advertisement!” she breathed resentfully.  It was one of the smallest houses facing the Green Park.

Hedges came forward with an apology from the countess-dowager.  An apology for not invading their house and inflicting her presence upon them uninvited!  A telegraphic despatch from Lord Kirton had summoned her to Ireland on the previous day; and Val’s face grew bright as he heard it.

“What was the matter, Hedges?” inquired his mistress.  “I’m sure my brother would not telegraph unless it was something.”

“The message didn’t say, my lady.  It was just a few words, asking her ladyship to go off by the first train, but giving no reason.”

“I wonder she went, then,” observed Val to his wife, as they looked into the different rooms.  But Maude did not wonder:  she knew how anxious her mother was to be on good terms with her eldest son, from whom she received occasional supplies.  Rather would she quarrel with the whole world than with him.

“I think it a good thing she has gone, Maude,” said he.  “There certainly would not have been room for her and for us in this house.”

“And so do I,” answered Maude, looking round her bed-chamber.  “If mamma fancies she’s going to inflict herself upon us for good she’s mistaken.  She and I might quarrel, perhaps; for I know she’d try to control me.  Val, what are we to do in this small house?”