"Madame de Mellissie, your husband certainly has an attack of fever," I said, as the train started. "Ah, yes, no doubt; the French, as I previously observed, are subject to it. But it never comes to anything." CHAPTER XI. CHANDOS. The station of Hetton, some fifty miles' journey from London on the Great Western line, and two from Chandos, lay hot and bright in the September sun. It was afternoon when we reached it. Madame de Mellissie had preferred to stay a night in London, and go on the next day at leisure. A handsome close carriage was in waiting outside the station, its three attendants wearing the Chandos livery, its panels bearing the arms of the Chandos family, surmounted by the badge of England's baronetage, the bloody hand. The servants lifted their hands to their hats, and respectfully welcomed Madame de Mellissie. "Is mamma well?" she inquired of them. "Quite well, madam." "And my brother? Why is he not here?" "Mr. Chandos, madam, was obliged to attend a county meeting." "Those ponderous county meetings!" she retorted. "And they never do any good. Step in, Miss Hereford." We were soon driving along. Pauline sat behind with one of the footmen, the other remained to bring on the luggage. Madame de Mellissie looked out on the points of road as we passed, with all the glee of a child. "This is my second visit only to Chandos since my marriage. For two years mamma was implacable, and would not see me; but last year she relented, and I came here for a little while. I don't believe, though, mamma will ever forgive me in her heart. I am sorry for it now." "Sorry for having—having married as you did?" "Ay, I am: Those rebellious marriages never bring luck. They can't, you know; only, girls are so thoughtless and stupid. I made my own bed, and must lie on it; it is not so bad as it might have been: but—of course, all that's left is to make the best of it. Alfred says we should get on better if we had children. I say we should not. And there, in the distance, you see the chimneys of Chandos. Look, Anne!" She was wayward in her moods; wayward to me as to others. Sometimes, during our past journey, she would be distantly polite, calling me "Miss Hereford:" the next moment open and cordial as ever she had been at school. That she had thrown herself away in a worldly point of view, marrying as she did, was indisputable, and Emily Chandos was not one to forget it.