Anne glanced at the dowager, to indicate whom she meant.  Lady Laura’s eyes followed the same direction, and she laughed.

“A painted old guy!  She looks like one who would do it.  Why doesn’t some one put her under a glass case and take her to the British Museum?  When news of the marriage came out to India I was thunderstruck.  I wrote off at once to Val, asking all sorts of questions, and received quite a savage reply, telling me to mind my own business.  That letter alone would have told me how Val repented; it was so unlike him.  Do you know what I did?”

“What did you do?”

“Sent him another letter by return mail with only two words in it—­’Elster’s Folly.’  Poor Val!  She died of heart-disease, did she not?”

“Yes.  But she seemed to have been ailing for some time.  She was greatly changed.”

“Val is changed.  There are threads of silver in his hair; and he is so much quieter than I thought he ever would be.  I wonder you took him, Anne, after all; and I wonder still more that Dr. Ashton allowed it.”

A blush tinged Lady Hartledon’s face as she looked out at the soft rain, and a half-smile parted her lips.

“I see, Anne.  Love once, love ever; and I suppose it was the same with Val, in spite of his folly.  I should have taken out my revenge by marrying the first eligible man that offered himself.  Talking of that—­is poor Mr. Graves married yet?”

“Yes, at last,” said Anne, laughing.  “A grand match too for him, poor timid man:  his wife’s a lord’s daughter, and as tall as a house.”

“If ever man worshipped woman he worshipped you, though you were only a girl.”

“Nonsense, Laura.”

“Anne, you knew it quite well; and so did Val.  Did he ever screw his courage up to the point of proposing?”

Anne laughed.  “If he ever did, I was too vexed to answer him.  He will be very happy, Laura.  His wife is a meek, amiable woman, in spite of her formidable height.”

“And now I want you to tell me one thing—­How was it that Edward could not be saved?”

For a moment Lady Hartledon did not understand, and turned her eyes on the boy.

“I mean my brother, Anne.  When news came out to India that he had died in that shocking manner, following upon poor George—­I don’t care now to recall how I felt.  Was there no one at hand to save him?”

“No one.  A sad fatality seemed to attend it altogether.  Val regrets his brother bitterly to this day.”

“And that poor Willy Gum was killed at sea, after all!”

“Yes,” said Anne, shortly.  “When you spoke of Edward,” returning to the other subject, “I thought you meant the boy.”

Lady Laura shook her head.  “He will never get well, Anne.  Death is written on his face.”

“You would say so, if you saw him some days.  He is excitable, and your coming has roused him.  I never saw any one fluctuate so; one day dying, the next better again.  For myself I have very little hope, and Mr. Hillary has none; but I dare not say so to Margaret and the dowager.”