Lady Lufton and her son were left together looking at each other. Of course he had intended to ask Griselda to dance, but it cannot be said that he very much regretted his disappointment. Of course also Lady Lufton had expected that her son and Griselda would stand up together, and she was a little inclined to be angry with her _protégée_. “I think she might have waited a minute,” said Lady Lufton. “But why, mother? There are certain things for which no one ever waits: to give a friend, for instance, the first passage through a gate out hunting, and such like. Miss Grantly was quite right to take the first that offered.” Lady Lufton had determined to learn what was to be the end of this scheme of hers. She could not have Griselda always with her, and if anything were to be arranged it must be arranged now, while both of them were in London. At the close of the season Griselda would return to Plumstead, and Lord Lufton would go—nobody as yet knew where. It would be useless to look forward to further opportunities. If they did not contrive to love each other now, they would never do so. Lady Lufton was beginning to fear that her plan would not work, but she made up her mind that she would learn the truth then and there,—at least as far as her son was concerned. “Oh, yes; quite so;—if it is equal to her with which she dances,” said Lady Lufton. “Quite equal, I should think—unless it be that Dumbello is longer-winded than I am.” “I am sorry to hear you speak of her in that way, Ludovic.” “Why sorry, mother?” “Because I had hoped—that you and she would have liked each other.” This she said in a serious tone of voice, tender and sad, looking up into his face with a plaintive gaze, as though she knew that she were asking of him some great favour. “Yes, mother, I have known that you have wished that.” “You have known it, Ludovic!” “Oh, dear, yes; you are not at all sharp at keeping your secrets from me. And, mother, at one time, for a day or so, I thought that I could oblige you. You have been so good to me, that I would almost do anything for you.” “Oh, no, no, no,” she said, deprecating his praise, and the sacrifice which he seemed to offer of his own hopes and aspirations. “I would not for worlds have you do so for my sake. No mother ever had a better son, and my only ambition is for your happiness.” “But, mother, she would not make me happy. I was mad enough for a moment to think that she could do so—for a moment I did think so. There was one occasion on which I would have asked her to take me, but—” “But what, Ludovic?” “Never mind; it passed away; and now I shall never ask her. Indeed I do not think she would have me. She is ambitious, and flying at higher game than I am. And I must say this for her, that she knows well what she is doing, and plays her cards as though she had been born with them in her hand.” “You will never ask her?” “No, mother; had I done so, it would have been for love of you—only for love of you.”