"Yes, that's true."
"I shall leave too. I don't mind if we go to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" he echoed. "Why, we have the house for three weeks longer."
"And if we have? We are not obliged to remain in it."
Lord Hartledon put back the curtain, and stood leaning out at the open window, seeking a breath of air that hot summer's night, though indeed there was none to be found; and if there had been, it could not have cooled the brow's inward fever. The Park lay before him, dark and misty; the lights of the few vehicles passing gleamed now and again; the hum of life was dying out in the streets, men's free steps, careless voices. He looked down, and wondered whether any one of those men knew what care meant as he knew it; whether the awful skeleton, that never quitted him night or day, could hold such place with another. He was Earl of Hartledon; wealthy, young, handsome; he had no bad habits to hamper him; and yet he would willingly have changed lots at hazard with any one of those passers-by, could his breast, by so doing, have been eased of its burden.
"What are you looking at, Val?"
His wife had come up and stolen her arm within his, as she asked the question, looking out too.
"Not at anything in particular," he replied, making a prisoner of her hand. "The night's hot, Maude."
"Oh, I am getting tired of London!" she exclaimed. "It is always hot now; and I believe I ought to be away from it."
"Yes."