Only a week ago, when Hartledon was talking about his marrying sometime, and hinting that she might care fox him if she tried, she scored her beautiful drawing all over with ugly marks; ran the pencil through it--" "But why do you tell me this now ?" asked Val.
"Hartledon--dear me! I wonder how long I shall be getting accustomed to your name ?--there's only you and me and Maude left now of the family," cried the dowager; "and if I speak of such things, it is in fulness of heart.

And now about these letters: do you care how they are worded ?" "I don't seem to care about anything," listlessly answered the young man.
"As to the letters, I think I'd rather write them myself, Lady Kirton." "Indeed you shall not have any trouble of that sort to-day.

_I'll_ write the letters, and you may indulge yourself in doing nothing." He yielded in his unstable nature.

She spoke of business letters, and it was better that he should write them; he wished to write them; but she carried her point, and his will yielded to hers.

Would it be a type of the future ?--would he yield to her in other things in defiance of his better judgment?
Alas! alas! She picked up her skirts and left him, and went sailing upstairs to her daughter's room.