"My dear Lance, we had better send for my lady; she is really, as you know, the dominant spirit of our family. She will decide on what is to be done." "I insist on my wife being treated with due respect," raged the young lord. "My dear Lance, you must do as you will; I refuse to recognize this lady in any way. Will you tell me when and where you were married?" "Certainly: this morning, by the Reverend Mr. Barnes, at the Church of St. Barnabas, in Oheton, a little village twenty miles from Rashleigh. The marriage was all _en regle_; we had the bans published and witnesses present." "You took great pains to be exact, and the lady, you tell me, is a farmer's niece." "My uncle is Farmer Robert Noel; he has a farm at Rashleigh," said Leone, "and in his way is an honest, loyal, honorable man." The earl could not help feeling the sweet, soft music of that voice; it touched his heart. "I believe you," he said, "but it is a sad thing Farmer Noel did not take more care of his niece. I am sorry it has happened; I can do nothing to help you; my lady must manage it all." "But, father," pleaded the young man, "it was on you I relied; it was to your efforts I trusted. Be my friend; if you will receive my wife here and acknowledge her, no one else can say a word." "My dear boy, only yesterday your mother and I were speaking of something on which the whole desire of her heart was fixed; remembering that conversation I tell you quite frankly that I dare not do what you ask me; your mother would never speak to me again." "Then, Leone, darling, we will go; Heaven forbid that we should remain where we are not welcome. Father," he cried, in sudden emotion, "have you not one kind word, not one blessing for me, on my wedding-day?" "I refuse to believe that it is your wedding-day, Lance. When that day does come, you shall have both kind words and blessings from me." CHAPTER XI. THE LAWYER'S STATEMENT. Lady Lanswell stood in the library at Dunmore House, her handsome face flushed with irritation and annoyance, her fine eyes flashing fire. She looked like one born to command; her tall, stately figure bore no signs of age; her traveling dress of rich silk swept the ground in graceful folds. She had not removed her mantle of rich lace; it hung from her shoulders still; she had removed her bonnet and gloves. With one jeweled hand resting on the table, she stood, the picture of indignation and anger. Lord Lanswell had sent a telegram at once, when his son left him, begging her to come at once, as Lance had something important to tell her.