"Have you left off taking breakfast?"
"To a great extent."
"What's the matter with you?"
Lord Hartledon slightly raised his eyebrows. "One can't eat much in the heat of summer."
"Heat of summer! it's nothing more than autumn now. And you are as thin as a weasel. Try some of that excellent raised pie."
"Pray let my appetite alone, Lady Kirton. If I wanted anything I should take it."
"Let you alone! yes, of course! You don't want it noticed that you are out of sorts," snapped the dowager. "Oh, I know the signs. You've been raking about London—that's what you've been at."
The "raking about London" presented so complete a contrast to the lonely life he had really passed, that Hartledon smiled in very bitterness. And the smile incensed the dowager, for she misunderstood it.
"It's early days to begin! I don't think you ought to have married Maude."
"I don't think I ought."