“Ay; beloved, honoured and respected as no woman has ever been by me yet, or ever will be again,” he replied, speaking too plainly in his warmth.

“What a false-hearted monster!” cried the dowager, shrilly, apostrophizing the walls and the mirrors.  “What then was Maude?”

“Maude is gone, and I counsel you not to bring up her name to me,” said Val, sternly.  “Your treachery forced Maude upon me; and let me tell you now, Lady Kirton, if I have never told you before, that it wrought upon her the most bitter wrong possible to be inflicted; which she lived to learn.  I was a vacillating simpleton, and you held me in your trammels.  The less we rake up old matters the better.  Things have altered.  I am altered.  The moral courage I once lacked does not fail me now; and I have at least sufficient to hold my own against the world, and protect from insult the lady I have made my wife.  I beg your pardon if my words seem harsh; they are true; and I am sorry you have forced them from me.”

She was standing still for a moment, staring at him, not altogether certain of her ground.

“Where are the children?” he asked.

“Where you can’t get at them,” she rejoined hotly.  “You have your beloved wife; you don’t want them.”

He rang the bell, more loudly than he need have done; but his usually sweet temper was provoked.  A footman came in.

“Tell the nurse to bring down the children.”

“They are not at home, my lord.”

“Not at home!  Surely they are not out in this rain!—­and so late!”

“They went out this afternoon, my lord:  and have not come in, I believe.”

“There, that will do,” tartly interposed the dowager.  “You don’t know anything about it, and you may go.”

“Lady Kirton, where are the children?”

“Where you can’t get at them, I say,” was Lady Kirton’s response.  “You don’t think I am going to suffer Maude’s children to be domineered over by a wretch of a step-mother—­perhaps poisoned.”

He confronted her in his wrath, his eyes flashing.

“Madam!”

“Oh, you need not ‘Madam’ me.  Maude’s gone, and I shall act for her.”

“I ask you where my children are?”

“I have sent them away; you may make the most of the information.  And when I have remained here as long as I choose, I shall take them with me, and keep them, and bring them up.  You can at once decide what sum you will allow me for their education and maintenance:  two maids, a tutor, a governess, clothes, toys, and pocket-money.  It must be a handsome sum, paid quarterly in advance.  And I mean to take a house in London for their accommodation, and shall expect you to pay the rent.”

The coolness with which this was delivered turned Val’s angry feelings into amusement.  He could not help laughing as he looked at her.

“You cannot have my children, Lady Kirton.”

“They are Maude’s children,” snapped the dowager.