Anne was in the hall when he entered, talking to a poor applicant who was waiting to see the Rector.  Lord Hartledon lifted his hat to her, but did not offer to shake hands.  He had never presumed to touch her hand since the reconciliation; in fact, he scarcely ever saw her.

“How is Mrs. Ashton to-day?”

“A little better, I think.  She will be glad to see you.”

He followed the servant upstairs, and Anne turned to the woman again.  Mrs. Ashton was in an easy-chair near the window; he drew one close to her.

“You are looking wonderful to-day, do you know?” he began in tones almost as gay as those of the light-hearted Val Elster.  “What is it?  That very becoming cap?”

“The cap, of course.  Don’t you see its pink ribbons?  Your favourite colour used to be pink, Val.  Do you remember?”

“I remember everything.  But indeed and in truth you look better, dear Mrs. Ashton.”

“Yes, better to-day,” she said, with a sigh.  “I shall fluctuate to the end, I suppose; one day better, the next worse.  Val, I think sometimes it is not far off now.”

Very far off he knew it could not be.  But he spoke of hope still:  it was in his nature to do so.  In the depths of his heart, so hidden from the world, there seemed to be hope for the whole living creation, himself excepted.

“How is your wife to-day?”

“Quite well.  She and Edward are out with the ponies and carriage.”

“She never comes to see me.”

“She does not go to see anyone.  Though well, she’s not very strong yet.”

“But she’s young, and will grow strong.  I shall only grow weaker.  I am brave to-day; but you should have seen me last night.  So prostrate!  I almost doubted whether I should rise from my bed again.  I do not think you will have to come here many more times.”

“Oh, Mrs. Ashton!”

“A little sooner or a little later, what does it matter, I try to ask myself; but parting is parting, and my heart aches sometimes.  One of my aches will be leaving you.”

“A very minor one then,” he said, with deprecation; but tears shone in his dark blue eyes.

“Not a minor one.  I have loved you as a son.  I never loved you more, Percival, than when that letter of yours came to me at Cannes.”

It was the first time she had alluded to it:  the letter written the evening of his marriage.  Val’s face turned red, for his perfidy rose up before him in its full extent of shame.

“I don’t care to speak of that,” he whispered.  “If you only knew what my humiliation has been!”

“Not of that, no; I don’t know why I mentioned it.  But I want you to speak of something else, Val.  Over and over again has it been on my lips to ask it.  What secret trouble is weighing you down?”

A far greater change, than the one called up by recollection and its shame, came over his face now.  He did not speak; and Mrs. Ashton continued.  She held his hands as he bent towards her.