"Have I treated her with disrespect,
ma'am? I hope not."

"I don't say that you have—but ... in
short, you must do all you can to make her
like you ... be very modest and humble,
eh? She is a little jealous, my faithful
Mrs. Rouse, of any new-comer, and we
have had so many, eh! so many! If you
could but stay, mon Dieu! what a blessing!
but you must not be a fine lady, remember.
No, no, or Rouse will never endure you.
Now, here comes Dapper with the lamp,
and you can go on reading where you left
off at that description of the Siège de
Cames (which means Dunkerque.) ... To
think that people should find such a book
heavy, and read the nasty rubbish they do,
instead! But what would you? Ah!
'C'est un siècle ennuyé, dédaigneux des
fines analyses, et insensible à la grace,'"
she murmured to herself, quoting the words
of a great living French author, whom, at
least, she excepted from her general
anathema. But the quotation was not meant
for her new maid.

Maud had scarcely read a page when a
sound of laughter and loud voices in the
courtyard below the window made her
guess that the sportsmen were returned.
Presently some one came whistling La
Donna è mobile up the stairs, and a heavy
pair of shooting-boots tramped loungingly
along the corridor. Some fingers played
the devil's tattoo upon the panel of the
door; it opened, and a tall young man, the
same whom Maud had seen in the park in
the Norfolk blouse, entered.

CHAPTER VII.

THE likeness to his mother at once
told her that this was Mrs. Cartaret's
son; but he was less well-looking. His
height and well-balanced figure, broad in
the shoulder and thin in the flank, were,
indeed, his chief claims to consideration on
the score of personal appearance. The
nose was slightly turned up; the mouth,
veiled by a small silky moustache, was
large and mobile, wearing an habitual
expression of mockery, but capable of denoting
also strong passion. The eyes would
have been the best feature in his face, but
that he was short-sighted, and wore a
glass, which dimmed the brilliant light
that shines through the "window of the
mind," while it added no doubt to the
impudent, not to say defiant, air which
characterised the whole man. It is hardly
necessary, after that, to state that he was
too often contemptuous and satirical; but
it is well to mention that his voice was
low and musical, his smile very pleasant,
and that his manner, where he had a wish
to please, had a peculiar charm.

He stared at Maud as he sauntered up
the room, with his hands in his pockets.

"Well, mon enfant, what sport? Here
you find me with my new maid, who is a
treasure, reading French to me. Come
and listen to a chapter of Le Grand Cyrus,
before we dress for dinner, eh?"

"Thank you, but I shall get a nap without
that. You've had a better day's sport
than I have, mother. Few poachers on old
Scudéry's preserves, eh? It seems to me
that all Salisbury must shoot over yours.
It isn't worth bringing fellows down from
town for such a day as we've had—not
above a hundred head, and we shot your
two best covers. I blew up Rogers, but
it's the old story, toujours perdrix (not
that we put up a single covey to-day—
wish we had!), 'Missis won't go to the
expense.'"'

"Well, you are only here for two or
three days during the shooting season,
look you, mon enfant. It is not worth
while. I can buy the pheasants much,
cheaper than I can keep them."

"Yes, your own pheasants, shot by some
confounded poacher. You can't understand
that it is the sport, not the birds, I
care about."

"Bah! I understand sport on your Scotch
moors, on the mountain-side, but to stand
in an allée, and have the birds driven up
to you to be knocked over, fi donc! It is
not sport, mon fils. You like that they
shall say, as they said of David, 'Smith
in his covers hath slain his thousands,
but Lowndes Cartaret his ten thousands!'
Voilà!" and the old lady laughed
immoderately at her own joke.

"Well, at all events, my vanity is not to
be gratified," said her son; and then
continued with a malicious twinkle of the eye:
"At Compiègne, I am told, the battues
now are excellent. Kenchester was there
in November, and says nothing could be
better, which shows what good management
will do. There used to be very little
game, they say, in the old time, but the
emperor arranges everything so well."

"Va-t-en! oser me parler de ce coquin
là!" cried Mrs. Cartaret, shaking her fist
at her son, but laughing the next minute.
"You miserable boy!" she continued, "so
you think to get your pheasants by telling
me what that brigand does, eh? When