“I felt tired because I met no one I cared for,” she answered, in rather fractious tones.  “Every one we know is leaving town, or has left.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“I shall leave too.  I don’t mind if we go to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” he echoed.  “Why, we have the house for three weeks longer.”

“And if we have?  We are not obliged to remain in it.”

Lord Hartledon put back the curtain, and stood leaning out at the open window, seeking a breath of air that hot summer’s night, though indeed there was none to be found; and if there had been, it could not have cooled the brow’s inward fever.  The Park lay before him, dark and misty; the lights of the few vehicles passing gleamed now and again; the hum of life was dying out in the streets, men’s free steps, careless voices.  He looked down, and wondered whether any one of those men knew what care meant as he knew it; whether the awful skeleton, that never quitted him night or day, could hold such place with another.  He was Earl of Hartledon; wealthy, young, handsome; he had no bad habits to hamper him; and yet he would willingly have changed lots at hazard with any one of those passers-by, could his breast, by so doing, have been eased of its burden.

“What are you looking at, Val?”

His wife had come up and stolen her arm within his, as she asked the question, looking out too.

“Not at anything in particular,” he replied, making a prisoner of her hand.  “The night’s hot, Maude.”

“Oh, I am getting tired of London!” she exclaimed.  “It is always hot now; and I believe I ought to be away from it.”

“Yes.”

“That letter I had this morning was from Ireland, from mamma.  I told her, when I wrote last, how I felt; and you never read such a lecture as she gave me in return.  She asked me whether I was mad, that I should be going galvanizing about when I ought rather to be resting three parts of my time.”

“Galvanizing?” said Lord Hartledon.

“So she wrote:  she never waits to choose her words—­you know mamma!  I suppose she meant to imply that I was always on the move.”

“Do you feel ill, Maude?”

“Not exactly ill; but—­I think I ought to be careful.  Percival,” she breathed, “mamma asked me whether I was trying to destroy the hope of an heir to Hartledon.”

An ice-bolt shot through him at the reminder.  Better an heir should never be born, if it must call him father!

“I fainted to-day, Val,” she continued to whisper.

He passed his arm round his wife’s waist, and drew her closer to him.  Not upon her ought he to visit his sin:  she might have enough to bear, without coldness from him; rather should he be doubly tender.

“You did not tell me about it, love.  Why have you gone out this evening?” he asked reproachfully.

“It has not harmed me.  Indeed I will take care, for your sake.  I should never forgive myself.”