“Are you speaking of my maid?” she said—­and it might be that she had not attended to the conversation, and asked in ignorance, not in scorn.  “Her name is Anne.”

“I was speaking of Anne Ashton,” said Lord Hartledon.

“Allow me to beg Anne Ashton’s pardon,” returned Lady Maude; her tone this time unmistakably mocking.  “Anne is so common a name amongst servants.”

“I don’t care whether it is common amongst servants or uncommon,” spoke Lord Hartledon rather hotly, as though he would resent the covert sneer.  “It is Anne Ashton’s; and I love the name for her sake.  But I think it a pretty name; and should, if she did not bear it; prettier than yours, Maude.”

“And pray who is Anne Ashton?” demanded the countess-dowager, with as much hauteur as so queer an old figure and face could put on, whilst Maude bent over her employment with white lips.

“She is Dr. Ashton’s daughter,” spoke Lord Hartledon, shortly.  “My father valued him above all men.  He loved Anne too—­loved her dearly; and—­though I don’t know whether it is quite fair to Anne to let this out—­the probable future connection between the families was most welcome to him.  Next to my father, we boys reverenced the doctor; he was our tutor, in a measure, when we were staying at Hartledon; at least, tutor to poor George and Val; they used to read with him.”

“And you would hint at some alliance between you and this Anne Ashton!” cried the countess-dowager, in a fume; for she thought she saw a fear that the great prize might slip through her fingers.  “What sort of an alliance, I should like to ask?  Be careful what you say, Hartledon; you may injure the young woman.”

“I’ll take care I don’t injure Anne Ashton,” returned Lord Hartledon, enjoying her temper.  “As to an alliance with her—­my earnest wish is, as it was my father’s, that time may bring it about.  Val there knows I wish it.”

Val glanced at his brother by way of answer.  He had taken no part in the discussion; his slight lips were drawn down, as he balanced a pair of scissors on his forefinger, and he looked less good-tempered than usual.

“Has she red hair and sky-blue eyes, and a doll’s face?  Does she sit in the pew under the reading-desk with three other dolls?” asked the foaming dowager.

Lord Hartledon turned and stared at the speaker in wonder—­what could be so exciting her?

“She has soft brown hair and eyes, and a sweet gentle face; she is a graceful, elegant, attractive girl,” said he, curtly.  “She sat alone yesterday; for Arthur was in another part of the church, and Mrs. Ashton was not there.  Mrs. Ashton is not in good health, she tells me, and cannot always come.  The Rector’s pew is the one with green curtains.”

“Oh, that vulgar-looking girl!” exclaimed Maude, her unjust words—­and she knew them to be unjust—­trembling on her lips.  “The Grand Sultan might exalt her to be his chief wife, but he could never make a lady of her, or get her to look like one.”