This little episode had taken place the day that Lionel Verner and his wife returned.  On the following morning Lady Verner renewed the contest with Lucy.  And they were deep in it—­at least my lady was, for Lucy’s chief part was only a deprecatory silence, when Lionel arrived at Deerham Court, to pay that visit to his mother which you have heard of.

“I insist upon it, Lucy, that you recall your unqualified denial,” Lady Verner was saying.  “If you will not accept Lord Garle immediately, at any rate take time for consideration.  I will inform Lord Garle that you do it by my wish.”

“I cannot,” replied Lucy in a firm, almost a vehement tone.  “I—­you must not be angry with me, Lady Verner—­indeed, I beg your pardon for saying it—­but I will not.”

“How dare you, Lucy—­”

Her ladyship stopped at the sudden opening of the door, turning angrily to see what caused the interruption.  Her servant appeared.

“Mr. Verner, my lady.”

How handsome he looked as he came forward!  Tall, noble, commanding.  Never more so; never so much so in Lucy’s sight.  Poor Lucy’s heart was in her mouth, as the saying runs, and her pulses quickened to a pang.  She did not know of his return.

He bent to kiss his mother.  He turned and shook hands with Lucy.  He looked gay, animated, happy.  A joyous bridegroom, beyond doubt.

“So you have reached home, Lionel?” said Lady Verner.

“At ten last night.  How well you are looking, mother mine!”

“I am flushed just now,” was the reply of Lady Verner, her accent a somewhat sharp one from the remembrance of the vexation which had given her the flush.  “How is Paris looking?  Have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Paris is looking hot and dusty, and we have enjoyed ourselves much,” replied Lionel.  He answered in the plural, you observe; my lady had put the question in the singular.  Where is Decima?”

“Decima is sure to be at some work or other for Jan,” was the answer, the asperity of Lady Verner’s tone not decreasing.  “He turns the house nearly upside down with his wants.  Now a pan of broth must be made for some wretched old creature; now a jug of beef tea; now a bran poultice must be got; now some linen cut up for bandages.  Jan’s excuse is that he can’t get anything done at Dr. West’s.  If he is doctor to the parish, he need not be purveyor; but you may just as well speak to a post as speak to Jan.  What do you suppose he did the other day?  Those improvident Kellys had their one roomful of things taken from them by their landlord.  Jan went there—­the woman’s ill with a bad breast, or something—­and found her lying on the bare boards; nothing to cover her, not a saucepan left to boil a drop of water.  Off he comes here at the pace of a steam engine, got an old blanket and pillow from Catherine, and a tea-kettle from the kitchen.  Now, Lionel, would you believe what I am going to tell you?  No!  No one would.  He made the pillow and blanket into a bundle, and walked off with it under his arm; the kettle—­never so much as a piece of paper wrapped round it—­in his other hand!  I felt ready to faint with shame when I saw him crossing the road opposite, that spectacle, to get to Clay Lane, the kettle held out a yard before him to keep the black off his clothes.  He never could have been meant to be your brother and my son!”