Before eight o’clock the guests had all assembled in the drawing-room, except the countess-dowager and Maude.  Lord Hartledon was going about amongst them, talking to one and another of the beauties of this, his late father’s place; scarcely yet thought of as his own.  He was a tall slender man; in figure very much resembling Percival, but not in face:  the one was dark, the other fair.  There was also the same indolent sort of movement, a certain languid air discernible in both; proclaiming the undoubted fact, that both were idle in disposition and given to ennui.  There the resemblance ended.  Lord Hartledon had nothing of the irresolution of Percival Elster, but was sufficiently decisive in character, prompt in action.

A noble room, this they were in, as many of the rooms were in the fine old mansion.  Lord Hartledon opened the inner door, and took them into another, to show them the portrait of his brother George—­a fine young man also, with a fair, pleasing countenance.

“He is like Elster; not like you, Hartledon,” cried a young man, whose name was Carteret.

“Was, you mean, Carteret,” corrected Lord Hartledon, in tones of sad regret.  “There was a great family resemblance between us all, I believe.”

“He died from an accident, did he not?” said Mr. O’Moore, an Irishman, who liked to be called “The O’Moore.”

“Yes.”

Percival Elster turned to his brother, and spoke in low tones.  “Edward, was any particular person suspected of having fired the shot?”

“None.  A set of loose, lawless characters were out that night, and—­”

“What are you all looking at here?”

The interruption came from Lady Kirton, who was sailing into the room with Maude.  A striking contrast the one presented to the other.  Maude in pink silk and a pink wreath, her haughty face raised in pride, her dark eyes flashing, radiantly beautiful.  The old dowager, broad as she was high, her face rouged, her short snub nose always carried in the air, her light eyes unmeaning, her flaxen eyebrows heavy, her flaxen curls crowned by a pea-green turban.  Her choice attire was generally composed, as to-day, of some cheap, flimsy, gauzy material bright in colour.  This evening it was orange lace, all flounces and frills, with a lace scarf; and she generally had innumerable ends of quilted net flying about her skirts, not unlike tails.  It was certain she did not spend much money upon her own attire; and how she procured the costly dresses for Maude the latter appeared in was ever a mystery.  You can hardly fancy the bedecked old figure that she made.  The O’Moore nearly laughed out, as he civilly turned to answer her question.

“We were looking at this portrait, Lady Kirton.”

“And saying how much he was like Val,” put in young Carteret, between whom and the dowager warfare also existed.  “Val, which was the elder?”

“George was.”

“Then his death made you heir-presumptive,” cried the thoughtless young man, speaking impulsively.