“Did Maude tell you this?” inquired Anne; her radiant eyes full of surprise.

“Not Maude:  she never said a word to me upon the subject.  It was the dowager.”

“Then, Val, she must have said it with an object in view.  I am sure Maude did love him.  I know she did.”

He shook his head.  “You are wrong, Anne, depend upon it.  She did not like him, and she and her mother were at variance upon the point.  However, it is of no moment to discuss it now:  and it might never have come to an issue had Edward lived, for he did not care for her; and I dare say never would have cared for her.”

Anne said no more.  It was of no moment as he observed; but she retained her own opinion.  They strolled to the end of the short walk in silence, and Anne said she must go in.

“Am I quite forgiven?” whispered Lord Hartledon, bending his head down to her.

“I never thought I had very much to forgive,” she rejoined, after a pause.

“My darling!  I mean by your father.”

“Ah, I don’t know.  You must talk to him.  He knows we have been writing to each other.  I think he means to trust you.”

“The best plan will be for you to come soon to Hartledon, Anne.  I shall never go wrong when once you are my wife.”

“Do you go so very wrong now?” she asked.

“On my honour, no!  You need not doubt me, Anne; now or ever.  I have paid up what I owed, and will take very good care to keep out of trouble for the future.  I incurred debts for others, more than for myself, and have bought experience dearly.  My darling, surely you can trust me now?”

“I always did trust you,” she murmured.

He took a long, fervent kiss from her lips, and then led her to the open lawn and across to the house.

“Ought you to come in, Percival?”

“Certainly.  One word, Anne; because I may be speaking to the Rector—­I don’t mean to-night.  You will make no objection to coming soon to Hartledon?”

“I can’t come, you know, as long as Lady Kirton is its mistress,” she said, half seriously, half jestingly.

He laughed at the notion.  Lady Kirton must be going soon of her own accord; if not, he should have to pluck up courage and give her a hint, was his answer.  At any rate, she’d surely take herself off before Christmas.  The old dowager at Hartledon after he had Anne there!  Not if he knew it, he added, as he went on with her into the presence of Dr. and Mrs. Ashton.  The Rector started from his seat, at once telling him that he ought not to have come in.  Which Val did not see at all, and decidedly refused to go out again.

Meanwhile the countess-dowager and Maude were wondering what had become of him.  They supposed he was still sitting in the dining-room.  The old dowager fidgeted about, her fingers ominously near the bell.  She was burning to send to him, but hardly knew how he might take the message:  it might be that he would object to leading strings, and her attempt to put them on would ruin all.  But the time went on; grew late; and she was dying for her tea, which she had chosen should wait also.  Maude sat before the fire in a large chair; her eyes, her hands, her whole air supremely listless.