The rain poured down on the Monday morning; and Lord Hartledon stood at the window of the countess-dowager’s sitting-room—­one she had unceremoniously adopted for her own private use—­smoking a cigar, and watching the clouds.  Any cigar but his would have been consigned to the other side the door.  Mr. Elster had only shown (by mere accident) the end of his cigar-case, and the dowager immediately demanded what he meant by displaying that article in the presence of ladies.  A few minutes afterwards Lord Hartledon entered, smoking, and was allowed to enjoy his cigar with impunity.  Good-tempered Val’s delicate lips broke into a silent smile as he marked the contrast.

He lounged on the sofa, doing nothing, in his idle fashion; Lord Hartledon continued to watch the clouds.  On the previous Saturday night the gentlemen had entered into an argument about boating:  the result was that a match on the river was arranged, and some bets were pending on it.  It had been fixed to come off this day, Monday; but if the rain continued to come down, it must be postponed; for the ladies, who had been promised the treat, would not venture out to see it.

“It has come on purpose,” grumbled Lord Hartledon.  “Yesterday was as fine and bright as it could be, the glass standing at set fair; and now, just because this boating was to come off, the rain peppers down!”

The rain excepted, it was a fair vision that he looked out upon.  The room faced the back of the house, and beyond the lovely grounds green slopes extended to the river, tolerably wide here, winding peacefully in its course.  The distant landscape was almost like a scene from fairyland.

The restless dowager—­in a nondescript head-dress this morning, adorned with an upright tuft of red feathers and voluminous skirts of brown net, a jacket and flounces to match—­betook herself to the side of Lord Hartledon.

“Where d’you get the boats?” she asked.

“They are kept lower down, at the boat-house,” he replied, puffing at his cigar.  “You can’t see it from here; it’s beyond Dr. Ashton’s; lots of ’em; any number to be had for the hiring.  Talking of Dr. Ashton, they will dine here to-day, ma’am.”

“Who will?” asked Lady Kirton.

“The doctor, Mrs. Ashton—­if she’s well enough—­and Miss Ashton.”

“Who are they, my dear nephew?”

“Why, don’t you know?  Dr. Ashton preached to you yesterday.  He is Rector of Calne; you must have heard of Dr. Ashton.  They will be calling this morning, I expect.”

“And you have invited them to dinner!  Well, one must do the civil to this sort of people.”

Lord Hartledon burst into a laugh.  “You won’t say ‘this sort of people’ when you see the Ashtons, Lady Kirton.  They are quite as good as we are.  Dr. Ashton has refused a bishopric, and Anne is the sweetest girl ever created.”

Lady Maude, who was drawing, and exchanging a desultory sentence once in a way with Val, suddenly looked up.  Her colour had heightened, though it was brilliant at all times.