helplessness, appealed amazingly to the man beside her. He began to talk to her very gently and wisely, begging her to let the past alone, to think only what could be done to help the present. In the first place, would one not let his mother be of use to her ? He could answer for Lady Tranmore. Why shouldn't Lady Kitty spend the summer with her in Scotland? No doubt Madame d'Estrées would be abroad—
"Then I must go with her," said Kitty.
Ashe hesitated.
"Of course, if she wishes it."
"But I don't know that she will wish it. She is not very fond of me," said Kitty, doubtfully. "Yes, I would like to stay with Lady Tranmore. But will your cousin be there?"
"Miss Lyster?"
Kitty nodded.
"How can I tell? Of course, she is often there."
"It is quite curious," said Kitty, after-reflection, "how we dislike each other. And it is so odd. You know most people like me?"
She looked up at him, without a trace of coquetry, rather with a certain timidity that feared possible rebuff. "That's always been my difficulty," she went on, "till now. Everybody spoils me. I always get my own way. In the convent I was indulged and flattered, and then they wondered that I made all sorts of follies! I want a guide—that's quite certain; somebody to tell me what to do."
"I would offer myself for the post," said Ashe, "but that I feel perfectly sure that you would never follow anybody's advice in anything."
"Yes, I would," she said, wistfully, "I would—"
Ashe's face changed.
"Ah, if you would—"
She sprang up. "Do you see—" she pointed to some figures on a distant path. "They are coming back from church. You understand?—nobody must know about my sister. It will come round to Aunt Lina, of course; but when I'm gone. If she knew now, I should go back to London to-day!"
Ashe made it clear to her that he would be discretion itself. They left the bench: but as they began to ascend the steps, Kitty turned back.
"It was here I saw her first," she said, in a miserable tone, the tears flooding once more into her eyes.
Ashe looked at her with great kindness, but without speaking. The moment of sharp pain passed, and she moved on languidly beside him. But there was an infection in his strong handsome presence, and her smiles soon came back. By the time they neared the house, indeed, she seemed to be in wild spirits again.
"Did he know," she asked him, "that three more guests were coming that afternoon—Mr. Darrell, Mr. Louis Harman, and—Mr. Geoffrey Cliffe." She laid an emphasis on the last name, which made Ashe say, carelessly—
"You want to meet him so much?"
"Of course. Doesn't all the world?"
Ashe replied that he could only answer for himself, and as far as he was concerned he could do very well without Cliffe's company at all times.
Whereupon Kitty protested with fire that other men were jealous of such a famous person, because women liked him —because—
"Because the man's a coxcomb, and the women spoil him?"
"A coxcomb!"
Kitty was up in arms.
"Pray, is he not a great traveller?—a very great traveller?" she asked with indignation.
"Certainly—by his own account."
"And a most brilliant writer?"
"Macaulayese," said Ashe perversely—"and not very good at that."
Kitty was at first struck dumb, and then began a voluble protest against unfairness so monstrous. Did not all intelligent people read and admire? It was mere jealousy, she repeated, to deny the gentleman's claims.
Ashe let her talk and quote and excite herself, applying every now and then a little sly touch of the goad, to make her still run on, and so forget the tragic hour which had overshadowed her. And meanwhile all he cared for was to watch the flashing of her face and eyes, and the play of the wind in her hair, and the springing grace with which she moved. Poor child!—it all came back to that—poor child!—what was to be done with her?
At luncheon—the Sundav luncheon—
