"O, of course; the mere recollection of baby would keep you sufficiently employed--at least, so you would have us believe. But I'm an old bachelor, and discredit such things. So there's a book of photographs for you to amuse yourself with while we talk.--Now, Mr. Ludlow, for our conversation. Since we met, your old friend Annie Maurice has inherited a very large property." "So I have heard, to my great surprise and delight. But I live so much out of the world that I scarcely knew whether it was true, and had determined to ask you the first time I should see you." "O, it's thoroughly true. She is the heiress of old Mr. Ampthill, who was a second cousin of her father's. But it was about her future career, as heiress of all this property, that I wanted to speak to you, you see.--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ludlow, what did you say?" Her face was dead white, her lips trembled, and it was with great difficulty she said any thing at all; but she did gasp out, "Who is this?" "That," said Lord Caterham, bending over the book; "O, that is the portrait of my younger brother, Lionel Brakespere; he--" but Caterham stopped short in his explanation, for Mrs. Ludlow fell backward in a swoon. And every one afterwards said that it was very thoughtless of her to take such a long drive so soon after her confinement. CHAPTER XI. CONJECTURES. Miss Maurice was not in the house when Geoffrey Ludlow and his wife made that visit to Lord Caterham which had so plainly manifested Margaret's imprudence and inexperience. The housekeeper and one of the housemaids had come to the assistance of the gentlemen, both equally alarmed and one at least calculated to be, of all men living, the most helpless under the circumstances. Geoffrey was "awfully frightened," as he told her afterwards, when Margaret fainted. "I shall never forget the whiteness of your face, my darling, and the dreadful sealed look of your eyelids. I thought in a moment that was how you would look if you were dead; and what should I do if I ever had to see _that_ sight!" This loving speech Geoffrey made to his wife as they drove homewards,--she pale, silent, and coldly abstracted; he full of tender anxiety for her comfort and apprehension for her health,--sentiments which rendered him, to say the truth, rather a trying companion in a carriage; for he was constantly pulling the glasses up and down, fixing them a button-hole higher or lower, rearranging the blinds, and giving the coachman contradictory orders. These proceedings were productive of no apparent annoyance to Margaret, who lay back against the cushions with eyes open and moody, and her underlip caught beneath her teeth. She maintained unbroken silence until they reached home, and then briefly telling Geoffrey that she was going to her room to lie down, she left him.