"Your own private chapel."
Lord Hartledon stared with all his eyes. The private chapel, built out from the house on the side next Calne, had not been used for years and years.
"Why, it's all dust and rust inside; its cushions moth-eaten and fallen to pieces."
"Is it all dust and rust!" returned the dowager. "That shows how observant you are. I had it put in order whilst you were in London; it was a shame to let a sacred place remain in such a state. I should like it to be used for Maude; and mind, I'll see to everything; you need not give yourself any trouble at all. There's only one thing I must enjoin on you."
"What's that?"
"Secrecy. Don't let a hint of your intentions get abroad. Whatever you do, don't write a word to that Carr friend of yours; he's as sharp as a two-edged sword. As well let things be done privately; it is Maude's wish."
"I shall not write to him," cried Hartledon, feeling a sudden heat upon his face, "or to any one else."
"Here's Maude. Step this way, Maude. Hartledon wants the ceremony to take place on Saturday, and I have promised for you."
Lady Maude advanced; she had really come in by accident; her head was bent, her eyelashes rested on her flushed cheeks. A fair prize; very, very fair! The old dowager put her hand into Lord Hartledon's.
"You will love her and cherish her, Percival?"