“In luck?” answered Maude, raising her eyes at the abrupt question.  “I don’t know.”

“I believe in it.  I believe that some are born under a lucky star, and others under an unlucky one.  Val is one of the latter.  He is always unlucky.  Set him up, and down he comes again.  I don’t think I ever knew Val lucky in my life.  Look at his nearly blowing his arm off that time in Scotland!  You will laugh at me, I dare say; but a thought crosses me at odd moments that his ill-luck will prevail still, in the matter of Miss Ashton.  Not if I can help it, however; I’ll do my best, for Anne’s sake.”

“You seem to think very much of her yourself,” cried Lady Maude, her cheeks crimsoning with an angry flush.

“I do—­as Val’s future wife.  I love Anne Ashton better than any one else in the world.  We all loved her.  So would you if you knew her.  In my mother’s last illness Anne was a greater comfort to her than Laura.”

“Should you ever think of a wife on your own score, she may not like this warm praise of Miss Anne Ashton,” said Lady Maude, assiduously drawing, her hot face bent down to within an inch of the cardboard.

“Not like it?  She wouldn’t be such an idiot, I hope, as to dislike it.  Is not Anne going to be my brother’s wife?  Did you suppose I spoke of Anne in that way?—­you must have been dreaming, Maude.”

Maude hoped she had been.  The young man took his cigar from his mouth, ran a penknife through the end, and began smoking again.

“That time is far enough off, Maude. I am not going to tie myself up with a wife, or to think of one either, for many a long year to come.”

Her heart beat with a painful throbbing.  “Why not?”

“No danger.  My wild oats are not sown yet, any more than Val’s; only you don’t hear of them, because I have money to back me, and he has not.  I must find a girl I should like to make my wife before that event comes off, Maude; and I have not found her yet.”

Lady Maude damaged her landscape.  She sketched in a tree where a chimney ought to have been, and laid the fault upon her pencil.

“It has been real sport, Maude, ever since I came home from knocking about abroad, to hear and see the old ladies.  They think I am to be caught with a bait; and that bait is each one’s own enchanting daughter.  Let them angle, an they please—­it does no harm.  They are amused, and I am none the worse.  I enjoy a laugh sometimes, while I take care of myself; as I have need to do, or I might find myself the victim of some detestable breach-of-promise affair, and have to stand damages.  But for Anne Ashton, Val would have had his head in that Westminster-noose a score of times; and the wonder is that he has kept out of it.  No, thank you, my ladies; I am not a marrying man.”

“Why do you tell me this?” asked Lady Maude, a sick faintness stealing over her face and heart.

“You are one of ourselves, and I tell you anything.  It will be fun for you, Maude, if you’ll open your eyes and look on.  There are some in the house now who—­” He stopped and laughed.