r on apathy. She did not say "Do go," or "Don't go."
She was perfectly passive; and Maude moved away half ashamed of herself,
and feeling, in spite of her jealousy and her prejudice, that if ever
there was a ladylike girl upon earth, it was Anne Ashton.

"How do you like her, Anne?" asked Val Elster, dropping into the vacant
place.

"Not much."

"Don't you? She is very handsome."

"Very handsome indeed. Quite beautiful. But still I don't like her."

"You would like her if you knew her. She has a rare spirit, only the old
dowager keeps it down."

"I don't think she much likes you, Val."

"She is welcome to dislike me," returned Val Elster.

CHAPTER VI.

AT THE BRIDGE.

The famous boat-race was postponed. Some of the competitors had
discovered they should be the better for a few days' training, and the
contest was fixed for the following Monday.

Not a day of the intervening week but sundry small cockle-shells--things
the ladies had already begun to designate as the "wager-boats," each
containing a gentleman occupant, exercising his arms on a pair of
sculls--might be seen any hour passing and repassing on the water; and
the green slopes of Hartledon, which here formed the bank of the river,
grew to be tenanted with fair occupants. Of course they had their
favourites, these ladies, and their little bets of gloves on them.

As the day for the contest drew near the interest became really exciting;
and on the Saturday morning there was quite a crowd on the banks. The
whole week, since Monday, had been most beautiful--calm, warm, lovely.
Percival Elster, in his rather idle fashion, was not going to join in the
contest: there were enough without him, he said.

He was standing now, talking to Anne. His face wore a sad expression,
as she glanced up at him from beneath the white feather of her rather
large-brimmed straw hat. Anne had been a great deal at Hartledon that
week, and was as interested in the race as any of them, wearing Lord
Hartledon's colours.

"How did you hear it, Anne?" he was asking.

"Mamma told me. She came into my room just now, and said there had been
words."

"Well, it's true. The doctor took me to task exactly as he used to do
when I was a boy. He said my course of life was sinful; and I rather
fired up at that. Idle and useless it may be, but sinful it is not:
and I said so. He explained that he meant that, and persisted in his
assertion--that an idle, aimless, profitless life