But in the first few days succeeding that of the birth a strange fancy took possession of her:  she observed, or thought she observed, that her husband did not seem to care for the child.  He did not caress it; she once heard him sighing over it; and he never announced it in the newspapers.  Other infants, heirs especially, could be made known to the world, but not hers.  The omission might never have come to her knowledge, since at first she was not allowed to see newspapers, but for a letter from the countess-dowager.  The lady wrote in a high state of wrath from Germany; she had looked every day for ten days in the Times, and saw no chronicle of the happy event; and she demanded the reason.  It afforded a valve for her temper, which had been in an explosive state for some time against Lord Hartledon, that ungracious son-in-law having actually forbidden her his house until Maude’s illness should be over; telling her plainly that he would not have his wife worried.  Lady Hartledon said nothing for a day or two; she was watching her husband; watching for signs of the fancy which had taken possession of her.

He was in her room one dark afternoon, standing with his elbow on the mantelpiece whilst he talked to her:  a room of luxury and comfort it must have been almost a pleasure to be ill in.  Lady Hartledon had been allowed to get up, and sit in an easy-chair:  she seemed to be growing strong rapidly; and the little red gentleman in the cradle, sleeping quietly, was fifteen days old.

“About his name, Percival; what is it to be?” she asked.  “Your own?”

“No, no, not mine,” said he, quickly; “I never liked mine.  Choose some other, Maude.”

“What do you wish it to be?”

“Anything.”

The short answer did not please the young mother; neither did the dreamy tone in which it was spoken.  “Don’t you care what it is?” she asked rather plaintively.

“Not much, for myself.  I wish it to be anything you shall choose.”

“I thought perhaps you would have liked it named after your brother,” she said, very much offended on the baby’s account.

“George?”

“George, no.  I never knew George; I should not be likely to think of him.  Edward.”

Lord Hartledon looked at the fire, absently pushing back his hair.  “Yes, let it be Edward.  It will do as well as anything else.”

“Good gracious, Percival, one would think you had been having babies all your life!” she exclaimed resentfully. “‘Do as well as anything else!’ If he were our tenth son, instead of our first, you could not treat it with more indifference.  I have done nothing but deliberate on the name since he was born; and I don’t believe you have once given it a thought.”

Lord Hartledon turned his face upon her; and when illumined with a smile, as now, it could be as bright as before care came to it.  “I don’t think we men attach the importance to names in a general way that you do, Maude.  I shall like to have it Edward.”