A tinge came into Maude’s cheeks.  “And you, mamma, told me that I was to rule my husband with an iron hand, never allowing him to have a will of his own, never consulting him!  Both you and I were wrong,” she continued quietly.  “I wrote that letter in a moment of irritation; and you were assuming what has not proved to be a fact.  I like my husband now quite well enough to keep friends with him; his kindness to me is excessive; but I find, with all my wish to rule him, if I had the wish, I could not do it.  He has a will of his own, and he exerts it in spite of me; and I am quite sure he will continue to exert it, whenever he fancies he is in the right.  You never saw any one so changed from what he used to be.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean in asserting his own will.  But he is changed in other ways.  It seems to me that he has never been quite the same man since that night in the chapel.  He has been more thoughtful; and all the old vacillation is gone.”

The countess-dowager could not understand at all; neither did she believe; and she only stared at Maude.

“His not coming down with me is a proof that he exercises his own will now.  I wished him to come very much, and he knew it; but you see he has not done so.”

“And what do you say is keeping him?” repeated the countess-dowager.

“Business—­”

“Ah,” interrupted the dowager, before Maude could finish, “that’s the general excuse.  Always suspect it, my dear.”

“Suspect what?” asked Maude.

“When a man says that, and gets his wife out of the way with it, rely upon it he is pursuing some nice little interests of his own.”

Lady Hartledon understood the implication; she felt nettled, and a flush rose to her face.  In her husband’s loyalty (always excepting his feeling towards Miss Ashton) she rested fully assured.

“You did not allow me to finish,” was the cold rejoinder.  “Business is keeping him in town, for one thing; for another, I think he cannot get over his dislike to face the Ashtons.”

“Rubbish!” cried the wrathful dowager.  “He does not tell you what the business is, does he?” she cynically added.

“I happen to know,” answered Maude.  “The Ashtons are bringing an action against him for breach of promise; and he and Mr. Carr the barrister are trying to arrange it without its coming to a trial.”

The old lady opened her eyes and her mouth.

“It is true.  They lay the damages at ten thousand pounds!”

With a shriek the countess-dowager began to dance.  Ten thousand pounds!  Ten thousand pounds would keep her for ever, invested at good interest.  She called the parson some unworthy names.

“I cannot give you any of the details,” said Maude, in answer to the questions pressed upon her.  “Percival will never speak of it, or allow me to do so.  I learnt it—­I can hardly tell you how I learnt it—­by implication, I think; for it was never expressly told me.  We had a mysterious visit one night from some old parson—­parson or lawyer; and Percival and Mr. Carr, who happened to be at our house, were closeted with him for an hour or two.  I saw they were agitated, and guessed what it was; Dr. Ashton was bringing an action.  They could not deny it.”