Lady Hartledon was not to be thwarted on all points, and she insisted on a ceremonious christening.  The countess-dowager would come over for it, and did so; Lord Hartledon could not be discourteous enough to deny this; Lord and Lady Kirton came from Ireland; and for the first time since their marriage they found themselves entertaining guests.  Lord Hartledon had made a faint opposition, but Maude had her own way.  The countess-dowager was furiously indignant when she heard of the intended sponsors—­its father and mother, and that cynical wretch, Thomas Carr!  Val played the hospitable host; but there was a shadow on his face that his wife did not fail to see.

It was the evening before the christening, and a very snowy evening too.  Val was dressing for dinner, and Maude, herself ready, sat by him, her baby on her knee.  The child was attired for the first time in a splendidly-worked robe with looped-up sleeves; and she had brought it in to challenge admiration for its pretty arms, with all the pardonable pride of a young mother.

“Won’t you kiss it for once, Val?”

He took the child in his arms; it had its mother’s fine dark eyes, and looked straight up from them into his.  Lord Hartledon suddenly bent his own face down upon that little one with what seemed like a gesture of agony; and when he raised it his own eyes were wet with tears.  Maude felt startled with a sort of terror:  love was love; but she did not understand love so painful as this.

She sat down with the baby on her knee, saying nothing; he did not intend her to see the signs of emotion.  And this brings us to where we were.  Lord Hartledon went on with his toilette, and presently someone knocked at the door.

Two letters:  they had come by the afternoon post, very much delayed on account of the snow.  He came back to the gaslight, opening one.  A full letter, written closely; but he had barely glanced at it when he hastily folded it again, and crammed it into his pocket.  If ever a movement expressed something to be concealed, that did.  And Lady Hartledon was gazing at him with her questioning eyes.

“Wasn’t that letter from Thomas Carr?”

“Yes.”

“Is he coming up?  Or is Kirton to be proxy?”

“He is—­coming, I think,” said Val, evidently knowing nothing one way or the other.  “He’ll be here, I daresay, to-morrow morning.”

Opening the other letter as he spoke—­a foreign-looking letter this one—­he put it up in the same hasty manner, with barely a glance; and then went on slowly with his dressing.

“Why don’t you read your letters, Percival?”

“I haven’t time.  Dinner will be waiting.”

She knew that he had plenty of time, and that dinner would not be waiting; she knew quite certainly that there was something in both letters she must not see.  Rising from her seat in silence, she went out of the room with her baby; resentment and an unhealthy curiosity doing battle in her heart.