"That letter I had this morning was from Ireland, from mamma. I told her, when I wrote last, how I felt; and you never read such a lecture as she gave me in return. She asked me whether I was mad, that I should be going galvanizing about when I ought rather to be resting three parts of my time."
"Galvanizing?" said Lord Hartledon.
"So she wrote: she never waits to choose her words—you know mamma! I suppose she meant to imply that I was always on the move."
"Do you feel ill, Maude?"
"Not exactly ill; but—I think I ought to be careful. Percival," she breathed, "mamma asked me whether I was trying to destroy the hope of an heir to Hartledon."
An ice-bolt shot through him at the reminder. Better an heir should never be born, if it must call him father!
"I fainted to-day, Val," she continued to whisper.
He passed his arm round his wife's waist, and drew her closer to him. Not upon her ought he to visit his sin: she might have enough to bear, without coldness from him; rather should he be doubly tender.
"You did not tell me about it, love. Why have you gone out this evening?" he asked reproachfully.
"It has not harmed me. Indeed I will take care, for your sake. I should never forgive myself."