"Not like it? She wouldn't be such an idiot, I hope, as to dislike it. Is not Anne going to be my brother's wife? Did you suppose I spoke of Anne in that way?--you must have been dreaming, Maude." Maude hoped she had been. The young man took his cigar from his mouth, ran a penknife through the end, and began smoking again. "That time is far enough off, Maude. _I_ am not going to tie myself up with a wife, or to think of one either, for many a long year to come." Her heart beat with a painful throbbing. "Why not?" "No danger. My wild oats are not sown yet, any more than Val's; only you don't hear of them, because I have money to back me, and he has not. I must find a girl I should like to make my wife before that event comes off, Maude; and I have not found her yet." Lady Maude damaged her landscape. She sketched in a tree where a chimney ought to have been, and laid the fault upon her pencil. "It has been real sport, Maude, ever since I came home from knocking about abroad, to hear and see the old ladies. They think I am to be caught with a bait; and that bait is each one's own enchanting daughter. Let them angle, an they please--it does no harm. They are amused, and I am none the worse. I enjoy a laugh sometimes, while I take care of myself; as I have need to do, or I might find myself the victim of some detestable breach-of-promise affair, and have to stand damages. But for Anne Ashton, Val would have had his head in that Westminster-noose a score of times; and the wonder is that he has kept out of it. No, thank you, my ladies; I am not a marrying man." "Why do you tell me this?" asked Lady Maude, a sick faintness stealing over her face and heart. "You are one of ourselves, and I tell you anything. It will be fun for you, Maude, if you'll open your eyes and look on. There are some in the house now who--" He stopped and laughed. "I would rather not hear this!" she cried passionately. "Don't tell me." Lord Hartledon looked at her, begged her pardon, and quitted the room with his cigar. Lady Maude, black as night, dashed her pencil on to the cardboard, and scored her sketch all over with ugly black lines. Her face itself looked ugly then. "Why did he say this to me?" she asked of her fevered heart. "Was it said with a purpose? Has he found out that I _love_ him? that my shallow old mother is one of the subtlest of the anglers? and that--" "What on earth are you at with your drawing, Maude?" "Oh, I have grown sick of the sketch. I am not in a drawing mood to-day, mamma." "And how fierce you were looking," pursued the countess-dowager, who had darted in at rather an inopportune moment for Maude--darting in on people at such moments being her habit. "And that was the sketch Hartledon asked you to do for him from the old painting!" "He may do it himself, if he wants it done." "Where is Hartledon?" "I don't know. Gone out somewhere." "Has he offended you, or vexed you?"