girlish dress, that made the girlish figure seem even frailer and lighter than he remembered it the night before, in the splendors of her Paris gown. Her large black hat emphasized the whiteness of her brow, the brilliance of her most beautiful eyes; and then all the rest was insubstantial sprite and airy nothing, to be crushed in one hand. And yet what untamed, indomitable things breathed from it—a self surely more self, more intensely, obstinately alive, than any he had yet known.
Her attack had brought the involuntary blood to his cheeks, which annoyed him. But he invited her to say why cheerfulness was a vice. She replied that no one should look success—as much as he did.
"And you scorn success?"
"Scorn it!" She drew a long breath, clasped both her hands above her head, then slowly let the thin arms fall again. "Scorn it! What nonsense! But everybody who hasn't got it hates those who have."
"Don't hate me!" said Ashe, quickly.
"Yes," she said, with stubbornness. "I must. Do you know why I was such a wildcat at school? Because some of the other girls were more important than I—much more important—and richer—and more beautiful—and people paid them more attention. And that seemed to burn the heart in me;"—she pressed her hands to her breast with a passionate gesture. "You know the French word panache? Well, that's what I care for—that's what I adore! To be the first—the best—the most distinguished. To be envied—and pointed at—obeyed when I lift my finger—and then to come to some great, glorious, tragic end!—"
Ashe moved impatiently.
"Lady Kitty—I don't like to hear you talk like this. It's wild, and it's also—I beg your pardon—"
"In bad taste?" she said, catching him up, breathlessly. "That's what you meant—isn't it? You said it to me before—when I called you handsome."
"Pshaw!" he said, in vexation. She watched him throw himself back and feel for his cigarette-case; a gesture of her hand gave him leave; she waited, smiling, till he had taken a few calming whiffs. Then she gently moved towards him.
"Don't be angry with me!" she said, in a sweet, low voice. "Don't you understand how hard it is—to have that nature—and then to come here out of the convent—where one had lived on dreams—and find oneself—"
She turned her head away. Ashe put down his new-lit cigarette.
"Find yourself?" he repeated.
"Everybody scorns me!" she said, her brow drooping.
Ashe exclaimed.
"You know it's true. My mother is not received. Can you deny that?"
"She has many friends," said Ashe.
"She is not received. When I speak of her no one answers me. Lady Grosville asks me here—me—out of charity. It would be thought a disgrace to marry me—"
"Look here, Lady Kitty!—"
"And I"—she wrung her small hands, as though she clasped the necks of her enemies—"I would never look at a man who did not think it the glory of his life to win me! So you see I shall never marry. But then the dreadful thing is—"
She let him see a white stormy face.
"—that I have no loyalty to Maman—I—I don't think I even love her."
Ashe surveyed her gravely.
"You don't mean that," he said.
"I think I do," she persisted. "I had a horrid childhood. I won't tell tales; but, you see, I don't know Maman. I know the Sœurs much better. And then for some one you don't know—to have to—to have to bear—this horrible thing—"
She buried her face in her hands. Ashe looked at her in perplexity.
"You sha'n't bear anything horrible," he said, with energy. "There are plenty of people who will take care of that. Do you mind telling me?—have there been special difficulties just lately?"
"Oh, yes," she said, calmly, looking up, "awful! Maman's debts are—well—ridiculous. For that alone I don't think she'll be able to stay in London—apart from—Alice."
The name recalled all she had just passed through, and her face quivered.
"What will she do?" she said, under her breath. "How will she punish us?—and why?—for what?"
Her dread—her ignorance—her fierce bruised vanity—her struggling pride—her
