But there came a reaction.  When Lady Hartledon had got over her first grief, the other annoyance returned to her, and she fell again to brooding over it in a very disturbing fashion.  She merited blame for this in a degree; but not so much as appears on the surface.  If that idea, which she was taking up very seriously, were correct—­that her husband’s succession was imperilled—­it would be the greatest misfortune that could happen to her in life.  What had she married for but position?—­rank, wealth, her title? any earthly misfortune would be less keen than this.  Any earthly misfortune!  Poor Maude!

It was a sombre dinner that evening; the news of Captain Kirton’s death making it so.  Besides relatives, very few guests were staying in the house; and the large and elaborate dinner-party of the previous day was reduced to a small one on this.  The first to come into the drawing-room afterwards, following pretty closely on the ladies, was Mr. Carr.  The dowager, who rarely paid attention to appearances, or to anything else, except her own comfort, had her feet up on a sofa, and was fast asleep; two ladies were standing in front of the fire, talking in undertones; Lady Hartledon sat on a sofa a little apart, her baby on her knee; and her sister-in-law, Lady Kirton, a fragile and rather cross-looking young woman, who looked as if a breath would blow her away, was standing over her, studying the infant’s face.  The latter lady moved away and joined the group at the fire as Mr. Carr approached Lady Hartledon.

“You have your little charge here, I see!”

“Please excuse it; I meant to have sent him away before any of you came up,” she said, quite pleadingly.  “Sarah took upon herself to proclaim aloud that his eyes were not straight, and I could not help having him brought down to refute her words.  Not straight, indeed!  She’s only envious of him.”

Sarah was Lady Kirton.  Mr. Carr smiled.

“She has no children herself.  I think you might be proud of your godson, Mr. Carr.  But he ought not to have been here to receive you, for all that.”

“I have come up soon to say good-bye, Lady Hartledon.  In ten minutes I must be gone.”

“In all this snow!  What a night to travel in!”

“Necessity has no law.  So, sir, you’d imprison my finger, would you!”

He had touched the child’s hand, and in a moment it was clasped round his finger.  Lady Hartledon laughed.

“Lady Kirton—­the most superstitious woman in the world—­would say that was an omen:  you are destined to be his friend through life.”

“As I will be,” said the barrister, his tone more earnest than the occasion seemed to call for.

Lady Hartledon, with a graciousness she was little in the habit of showing to Mr. Carr, made room for him beside her, and he sat down.  The baby lay on his back, his wide-open eyes looking upwards, good as gold.

“How quiet he is!  How he stares!” reiterated the barrister, who did not understand much about babies, except for a shadowy idea that they lived in a state of crying for the first six months.