She had recovered herself instantly; cried out “Yes” to those in the distance, as if she heard a call, and went away humming a tune.

“Val, she loves your brother,” whispered Anne.

“Do you think so?  I do sometimes; and again I’m puzzled.  She acts well if she does.  The other day I told Edward she was in love with him:  he laughed at me, and said I was dreaming; that if she had any love for him, it was cousin’s love.  What’s more, Anne, he would prefer not to receive any other; so Maude need not look after him:  it will be labour lost.  Here comes that restless old dowager down upon us!  I shall leave you to her, Anne.  I never dare say my soul’s my own in the presence of that woman.”

Val strolled away as he spoke.  He was not at ease that day, and the sharp, meddling old woman would have been intolerable.  It was all very well to put a good face on matters to Anne, but he was in more perplexity than he cared to confess to.  It seemed to him that he would rather die than give up Anne:  and yet—­in the straightforward, practical good sense of Dr. Ashton, he had a formidable adversary to deal with.

He suddenly found an arm inserted within his own, and saw it was his brother.  Walking together thus, there was a great resemblance between them.

They were of the same height, much the same build; both were very good-looking men, but Percival had the nicer features; and he was fair, and his brother dark.

“What is this, Val, about a dispute with the doctor?” began Lord Hartledon.

“It was not a dispute,” returned Val.  “There were a few words, and I was hasty.  However, I begged his pardon, and we parted good friends.”

“Under a flag of truce, eh?”

“Something of that sort.”

“Something of that sort!” repeated Lord Hartledon.  “Don’t you think, Val, it would be to your advantage if you trusted me more thoroughly than you do?  Tell me the whole truth of your position, and let me see what can be done for you.”

“There’s not much to tell,” returned Val, in his stupidity.  Even with his brother his ultra-sensitiveness clung to him; and he could no more have confessed the extent of his troubles than he could have taken wing that moment and soared away into the air.  Val Elster was one of those who trust to things “coming right” with time.

“I have been talking to the doctor, Val.  I called in just now to see Mrs. Ashton, and he spoke to me about you.”

“Very kind of him, I’m sure!” retorted Val.  “It is just this, Edward.  He is vexed at what he calls my idle ways, and waste of time:  as if I need plod on, like a city clerk, six days a week and no holidays!  I know I must do something before I can win Anne; and I will do it:  but the doctor need not begin to cry out about cancelling the engagement.”

“How much do you owe, Val?”

“I can’t tell.”

Lord Hartledon thought this an evasion.  But it was true.  Val Elster knew he owed a great deal more than he could pay; but how much it might be on the whole, he had but a very faint idea.