He took her hands in his.  Now that she knew him, and the alarm was over, she seemed really pleased to see him:  the dark eyes were raised to his with a frank smile.

“May I take a cousin’s greeting, Maude?”

Without waiting for yes or no, he stooped and took the kiss.  Maude flung his hands away.  He should have left out the “cousin,” or not have taken the kiss.

He went and stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, soberly, as if he had only kissed a sister.  Maude sat down again.

“Why did you not send us word you were coming?” she asked.

“There was no necessity for it.  And I only made my mind up this morning.”

“What a long time you have been away!  I thought you went for a week.”

“I did not get my business over very quickly; and waited afterwards to see Thomas Carr, who was out of town.  The Ashtons were away, you know; so I had no inducement to hurry back again.”

“Very complimentary to her.  Who’s Thomas Carr?” asked Maude.

“A barrister; the greatest friend I possess in this world.  We were at college together, and he used to keep me straight.”

“Keep you straight!  Val!”

“It’s quite true.  I went to him in all my scrapes and troubles.  He is the most honourable, upright, straightforward man I know; and, as such, possesses a talent for serving—­”

“Hartledon!  Is it you?”

The interruption came from the dowager.  She and the butler came in together, both looking equally astonished at the appearance of Lord Hartledon.  The former said dinner was served.

“Will you let me sit down in this coat?” asked Val.

The countess-dowager would willingly have allowed him to sit down without any.  Her welcome was demonstrative; her display of affection quite warm, and she called him “Val,” tenderly.  He escaped for a minute to his room, washed his hands, brushed his hair, and was down again, and taking the head of his own table.

It was pleasant to have him there—­a welcome change from Hartledon’s recent monotony; and even Maude, with her boasted dislike, felt prejudice melting away.  Boasted dislike, not real, it had been.  None could dislike Percival.  He was not Edward, and it was him Maude had loved.  Percival she never would love, but she might learn to like him.  As he sat near her, in his plain black morning attire, courteous, genuinely sweet-tempered, his good looks conspicuous, a smile on his delicate, refined, but vacillating lips, and his honest dark-blue eyes bent upon her in kindness, Maude for the first time admitted a vision of the possible future, together with a dim consciousness that it might not be intolerable.  Half the world, of her age and sex, would have deemed it indeed a triumph to be made the wife of that attractive man.