She saw; and heard.  But how she controlled her feelings, how she remained and made no sign, she never knew.  But that the instinct of self-esteem was one of her strongest passions, the dread of detection in proportion to it, she never had remained.  There she was, and she could not get away again.  The subtle dexterity which had served her in coming might desert her in returning.  Had their senses been on the alert they might have heard her poor heart beating.

The interview did not last long—­about twenty minutes; and whilst Lord Hartledon was attending his visitor to the door she escaped upstairs again, motioned away the nurse, and resumed her shoes.  But what did she look like?  Not like Maude Hartledon.  Her face was as that of one upon whom some awful doom has fallen; her breath was coming painfully; and she kneeled down on the carpet and clasped her children to her beating heart with an action of wild despair.

“Oh, my boy! my boy!  Oh, my little Maude!”

Suddenly she heard her husband’s step approaching, and pushing them from her, rose and stood at the window, apparently looking out on the darkening world.

Lord Hartledon came in, gaily and cheerily, his manner lighter than it had been for years.

“Well, Maude, I have not been long, you see.  Why don’t you have lights?”

She did not answer:  only stared straight out.  Her husband approached her.  “What are you looking at, Maude?”

“Nothing,” she answered:  “my head aches.  I think I shall lie down until dinner-time.  Eddie, open the door, and call Nurse, as loud as you can call.”

The little boy obeyed, and the nurse returned, and was ordered to take the children.  Lady Hartledon was following them to go to her own room, when she fell into a chair and went off in a dead faint.

“It’s that excitement,” said Val.  “I do wish Maude would be reasonable!”

The illness, however, appeared to be more serious than an ordinary fainting-fit; and Lord Hartledon, remembering the suspicion of heart-disease, sent for the family doctor Sir Alexander Pepps, an oracle in the fashionable world.

A different result showed itself—­equally caused by excitement—­and the countess-dowager arrived in a day or two in hot haste.  Lady Hartledon lay in bed, and did not attempt to get up or to get better.  She lay almost as one without life, taking no notice of any one, turning her head from her husband when he entered, refusing to answer her mother, keeping the children away from the room.

“Why doesn’t she get up, Pepps?” demanded the dowager, wrathfully, pouncing upon the physician one day, when he was leaving the house.

Sir Alexander, who might have been supposed to have received his baronetcy for his skill, but that titles, like kissing, go by favour, stopped short, took off his hat, and presumed that Lady Hartledon felt more comfortable in bed.

“Rubbish!  We might all lie in bed if we studied comfort.  Is there any earthly reason why she should stay there, Pepps?”