“Papa, Regy and the other two are not going to put me and Maude out of our places, are they?  They can’t, you know.  We come first.”

“Yes, yes, my boy; no one shall put you out,” was the answer, as he pressed passionate kisses on the boy’s face.  “I will stand by you for ever.”

Very judicious indeed! the once sensible man seemed to ignore the evident fact that the boy had been tutored.  Lady Hartledon, a fear creeping over her, she knew not of what, left her brooch where it was, and stole back to her dressing-room.

Presently Val came in, all traces of emotion removed from his features.  Lady Hartledon had dismissed her maid, and stood leaning against the arm of the sofa, indulging in bitter rumination.

“Silly children!” cried he; “it’s hard work to manage them.  And Edward has lost his pow—­”

He broke off; stopped by the look of angry reproach from his wife, cast on him for the first time in their married life.  He took her hand and bent down to her:  fervent love, if ever she read it, in his eyes and tones.

“Forgive me, Anne; you are feeling this.”

“Why do you throw these slights on my children?  Why are you not more just?”

“I do not intend to slight our children, Anne, Heaven knows.  But I—­I cannot punish Edward.”

“Why did you ever make me your wife?” sighed Lady Hartledon, drawing her hand away.

His poor assumption of unconcern was leaving him quickly; his face was changing to one of bitter sorrow.

“When I married you,” she resumed, “I had reason to hope that should children be born to us, you would love them equally with your first; I had a right to hope it.  What have I done that—­”

“Stay, Anne!  I can bear anything better than reproach from you.”

“What have I and my children done to you, I was about to ask, that you take this aversion to them? lavishing all your love on the others and upon them only injustice?”

Val bent down, agitation in his face and voice.

“Hush, Anne! you don’t know.  The danger is that I should love your children better, far better than Maude’s.  It might be so if I did not guard against it.”

“I cannot understand you,” she exclaimed.

“Unfortunately, I understand myself only too well.  I have a heavy burden to bear; do not you—­my best and dearest—­increase it.”

She looked at him keenly; laid her hands upon him, tears gathering in her eyes.  “Tell me what the burden is; tell me, Val!  Let me share it.”

But Val drew in again at once, alarmed at the request:  and contradicted himself in the most absurd manner.

“There’s nothing to share, Anne; nothing to tell.”

Certainly this change was not propitiatory.  Lady Hartledon, chilled and mortified, disdained to pursue the theme.  Drawing herself up, she turned to go down to dinner, remarking that he might at least treat the children with more apparent justice.