“And he did so?”

“After a great deal of trouble.  There’s no time to give you details.  I had a powerful advocate in Anne’s heart.  She had never forgotten me, for all my misconduct.”

“You have been a lucky man at last, taking one thing with another.”

“You may well say so,” was the answer, in tones of deep feeling.  “Moments come over me when I fear I am about to awake and find the present a dream.  I am only now beginning to live.  The past few years have been—­you know what, Carr.”

He sent the barrister into the drawing room, went upstairs for Anne, and brought her in on his arm.  The dowager was in her chamber, attiring herself in haste.

“My wife, Carr,” said Hartledon, with a loving emphasis on the word.  She was in an evening dress of white and black, not having yet put off mourning for Mrs. Ashton, and looked very lovely; far more lovely in Thomas Carr’s eyes than Lady Maude, with her dark beauty, had ever looked.  She held out her hand to him with a frank smile.

“I have heard so much of you, Mr. Carr, that we seem like old friends.  I am glad you have come to see me so soon.”

“My being here this evening is an accident, Lady Hartledon, as you may see by my dress,” he returned.  “I ought rather to apologize for intruding on you in the hour of your arrival.”

“Don’t talk about intrusion,” said Val.  “You will never be an intruder in my house—­and Anne’s smile is telling you the same—­”

“Who’s that, pray?”

The interruption came from the countess-dowager.  There she stood, near the door, in a yellow gown and green turban.  Val drew himself up and approached her, his wife still on his arm.  “Madam,” said he, in reply to her question, “this is my wife, Lady Hartledon.”

The dowager’s gauzes made acquaintance with the carpet in so elaborate a curtsey as to savour of mockery, but her eyes were turned up to the ceiling; not a word or look gave she to the young lady.

“The other one, I meant,” cried she, nodding towards Thomas Carr.

“It is my friend Mr. Carr.  You appear to have forgotten him.”

“I hope you are well, ma’am,” said he, advancing towards her.

Another curtsey, and the countess-dowager fanned herself, and sailed towards the fireplace.

Meanwhile the children came home in a cab from Madame Tussaud’s, and dinner was announced.  Lord Hartledon was obliged to take down the countess-dowager, resigning his wife to Mr. Carr.  Dinner passed off pretty well, the dowager being too fully occupied to be annoying; also the good cheer caused her temper to thaw a little.  Afterwards, the children came in; Edward, a bold, free boy of five, who walked straight up to his grandmother, saluting no one; and Maude, a timid, delicate little child, who stood still in the middle of the carpet where the maid placed her.

The dowager was just then too busy to pay attention to the children, but Anne held out her hand with a smile.  Upon which the child drew up to her father, and hid her face in his coat.