Maulevrier, the restless, was off to Argyleshire for the grouse shooting
as soon as he had deposited Lady Lesbia comfortably at Fellside.
'I should only be in your way if I stopped,' he said, 'for you and Molly
have hardly got over the honeymoon stage yet, though you put on the airs
of Darby and Joan. I shall be back in a week or ten days.'
'In Lady Maulevrier's state of health I don't think you ought to stay
away very long,' said Hartfield.
'Poor Lady Maulevrier! She never cared much for me, don't you know. But
I suppose it would seem unkind if I were to be out of the way when the
end comes. The end! Good heavens! how coolly I talk of it; and a year
ago I thought she was as immortal as Fairfield yonder.'
He went away, his spirits dashed by that awful thought of death, and
Lord and Lady Hartfield had the house to themselves, since Lesbia hardly
counted. She seldom left her own rooms, except to sit with her
grandmother for an hour. She lay on her sofa--or sat in a low arm-chair
by the window, reading Keats or Shelley--or only dreaming--dreaming over
the brief golden time of her life, with its fond delusions, its false
brightness.
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