She did not act upon the suggestion. Whether it was her warning, or whether it was not, she allowed it to slip from her. Hartledon's broad lands and coronet resumed their fascination over her soul; and when her door was tried, Lady Maude had lost herself in that famous Spanish château we have all occupied on occasion, touching the alterations she had mentally planned in their town-house.
"Goodness, Maude, what do you lock yourself in for?"
Maude opened the door, and the countess-dowager floundered in. She was resplendent in one of her old yellow satin gowns, a white turban with a silver feather, and a pink scarf thrown on for ornament. The colours would no doubt blend well by candlelight.
"Come, Maude. There's no time to be lost."
"Are the men gone?"
"Yes, they are gone; no thanks to Hartledon, though. He sat mooning on, never giving them the least hint to depart. Priddon told me so. I'll tell you what it is, Maude, you'll have to shake your husband out of no end of ridiculous habits."
"It is growing dark," exclaimed Maude, as she stepped into the corridor.
"Dark! of course it's dark," was the irascible answer; "and they have had to light up the chapel, or Priddon couldn't have seen to read his book. And all through those confounded fox-hunters!"
Lord Hartledon was not in the drawing-room, where Lady Kirton had left him only a minute before; and she looked round sharply.
"Has he gone on to the chapel?" she asked of the young clergyman.