“Not when it is objectionable to me.  I dislike that man Carr, and will not receive him.”

“You can have no grounds for disliking him,” returned Lord Hartledon warmly.  “He has been a good and true friend to me ever since I knew what friendship meant; and he is a good and true man.”

“Too much of a friend,” she sarcastically retorted.  “You don’t need him now, and can drop him.”

“Maude,” said Lord Hartledon, very quietly, “I have fancied several times lately that you are a little mistaking me.  I am not to have a will of my own; I am to bend in all things to yours; you are to be mistress and master, I a nonentity:  is it not so?  This is a mistake.  No woman ever had a better or more indulgent husband than you shall find in me:  but in all necessary things, where it is needful and expedient that I should exercise my own judgment, and act as master, I shall do it.”

She paused in very astonishment:  the tone was so calmly decisive.

“My dear, let us have no more of this; something must have vexed you to-day.”

“We will have no more of it,” she passionately retorted; “and I’ll have no more of your Thomas Carrs.  It is not right that you should bring a man here who has deliberately insulted me.  Be quiet, Lord Hartledon; he has.  What else was it but an insult—­his going out of the chapel in the manner he did, when we were before the altar?  It was a direct intimation that he did not countenance the marriage.  He would have preferred, I suppose, that you should marry your country sweetheart, Anne Ashton.”

A hot flush rose to Lord Hartledon’s brow, but his tone was strangely temperate.  “I have already warned you, Maude, that we shall do well to discard that name from our discussions, and if possible from our thoughts; it may prove better for both of us.”

“Better for you, perhaps; but you are not going to exercise any control over my will, or words, or action; and so I tell you at once.  I’m quite old enough to be out of leading-strings, and I’ll be mistress in my own house.  You will do well to send a note to your amiable friend Carr; it may save him a useless journey; for at my table he shall not sit.  Now you know, Val.”

She spoke impatiently, haughtily, and swept out to her carriage.  Val did not follow to place her in; he positively did not, but left her to the servants.  Never in his whole life perhaps had he felt so nettled, never so resolute:  the once vacillating, easily-persuaded man, when face to face with people, was speedily finding the will he had only exercised behind their backs.  He rang the bell for Hedges.

“Her ladyship has ordered dinner for nine o’clock,” he said, when the butler appeared.

“I believe so, my lord.”

“It will be inconvenient to me to wait so long to-day.  I shall dine at seven.  You can serve it in this room, leaving the dining-room for Lady Hartledon.  Mr. Carr dines with me.”