"Sir Francis perhaps had his own aims to attain," interpolates Lady Etwynde. "I am inclined to think so, judging by results."
"Do you mean—do you really think he wishes for freedom?" gasps Mrs. Douglas. "Is it so bad as that?"
"Lady Jean seems to have infatuated him," answers Lady Etwynde. "He was always weak where women were concerned, you know. He has treated Lauraine very badly and he is even now in Paris."
"I think I will go down to Falcon's Chase," says Mrs. Douglas presently. "I must see Lauraine and advise her. It is really most critical. I had no idea things were so bad. She has not chosen to take me into her confidence; still, as her mother, it is my duty to see she does not ruin her whole future."
"I think," says Lady Etwynde, very quietly, "I would not go if I were you."
"Why not?" demands Mrs. Douglas sharply.
"She might not like it," answers Lady Etwynde; "and you can do no good—no one can. Lauraine is proud, but she is also high-principled. I do not think you need fear for her. What is right to do she will do, at any cost. Sir Francis has not carried out his threat, and I fancy he won't. He has ordered Lauraine to remain in Northumberland; but I do not think that is any great punishment to her. She always loved the Chase, and all her memories of her child are with it."
"It is a pity the child died," says Mrs. Douglas.
"You may well say that. He would at least have been some consolation to her now. Not that it would have made any difference to Sir Francis. He never cared for the boy. Still it was a tie."
"Lauraine must have been in fault," complains Mrs. Douglas fretfully. "It is all nonsense to say she is a martyr—Sir Francis was no worse than other men. If she had been less cold, less odd, he would never have run after other women."