"Because I object to that sort of bargain
in the first place, and because I have no
desire to become the proprietor of the
article that is offered me, or any other such
article, indeed, in the second."

He stood behind her chair, and leaning
over it, with a tenderness which took Maud
completely by surprise, he put his arms
round his mother's neck, so that her head
was pressed against his chest; then, when
he had kissed her, he said, laughingly:

"You dear old woman, I wish you
wouldn't trouble your head about me. I
wish you would understand that I want
nothing, and prefer remaining as I am."

"Take care of my cap! You are choking
me, polisson que tu es! Want for nothing?
But I say you do want for something.
Are you never going to range yourself?
Is it not time that you sowed your—how
do you say?—wild corn?"

Here she sunk her voice to the level
which she appeared always to consider
inaudible; but Maud, who was purposely
busying herself at the very furthest end
of the room, lost no syllable of what
followed.

"A charming girl—a great heiress—one
of the oldest families in France—what
would you more, Lowndes? Ah! mon
enfant, do me this pleasure. Go, present
yourself: visit them, Ça ne vous engage
à rien. If you knew—if you knew how
much I desire to see you with a nice little
wife and a child—an heir to this property
—before I die! It is the first wish of
my heart. I would give up Beckworth
to-morrow. I would leave her mistress
here, and go away, and trouble no one
no more, if I once saw you settled, willing
to live quietly here, and look after your
terres."

"Give up Beckworth! why, what would
Beckworth do without you? May you
reign here many a year yet, you dear old
incorrigible match-maker. I shouldn't
manage the estate half as well as you, and
I feel no vocation yet for living quietly,
and looking after my tares, which flourish
enough of themselves—what you are pleased
to call 'my wild corn.' As to paying a
visit to Marley-les-Bois, it would bore me
to death, and you would not have my early
demise upon your conscience, mother?
'At the Château de Marley-les-Bois, of
exhaustion produced by ennui, in the flower
of his youth:' it wouldn't read badly, eh?
But I've no wish to invest my name with
the posthumous interest attaching to such
an epitaph just at present, at all events.
I dare say the young lady is all you say,
and a great deal more, but I am case-hardened
against female charms, and——"

"Va-t-en, farceur! As if I did not know
. . . . daring to talk to me like that! . . . .
Est ce que tu me prends pour une
imbécile? . . . . You will get caught by some
vile baggage or other, and then—and then
—it will kill me—that will be the end of
it. If I saw you marry beneath you, to
any low creature, you might as well stick a
knife into me at once. I am serious. I will
not have you laugh, sir. You laugh at
everything: it is a stupid habit—any fool
can do that. Nothing is sacred for you—
nothing!"

"Certainly not the question of my
marriage either with the daughter of your
marquis, or with the vile baggage you
imagine is to captivate me. Your wishes are
among the few things that are sacred to
me, and anything I can do to oblige you,
short of marrying——"

"There, hold your tongue! You put me
in a rage, and that spoils my digestion.
My stomach turns when you speak like
that. 'Short of marrying,' indeed! . . . .
go and dress. It is no use talking to you—
go and dress—you make me sick. My
wishes sacred to you? Like other sacred
things, sir, you neglect them very much.
I have no patience with you—none—go
and dress."

He stooped down his impudent, smiling
face till it touched hers. In vain the old
lady, in her irritation, tried to shake him
off; like some obstinate Newfoundland
puppy, which, the more it is repulsed, the
closer it thrusts its muzzle into your hand,
this incorrigible young man insisted upon
extracting some caress in token of forgiveness
before he would depart. Of course
the old lady gave in, after a feeble resistance,
and the young man laughed, and
stretched himself, and lounged out of the
room, staring at Maud as he did so, but
failing to attract that young person's attention,
who was busying herself at a wardrobe,
and did not turn round. It is true
that the wardrobe had a mirror.

Mrs. Cartaret was at last dressed, and
Maud could not but acknowledge that, in
spite of her low stature, in spite of her size,
in spite of unfashionable, not to say somewhat
shabby, clothes, she had an "air"—
whether it was "the grand air" Maud
could not determine—which was neither
grace nor dignity, but which, nevertheless,
gave a distinction to her appearance. She
was not a common-looking old woman, just