was acquainted with almost all the members of the group. He was not completely indifferent to his exclusion; and this fact annoyed him more than the exclusion itself.
He had scarcely finished his inspection of the print when the door again opened and Geoffrey Cliffe entered. Darrell had not yet seen him since his return and since his attack on the government had made him the hero of the hour. Of the newspaper success Darrell was no less jealous and contemptuous than Lady Tranmore,—though for quite other reasons. But he knew better than she the intellectual quality of the man, and his disdain for the journalist was tempered by his considerable though reluctant respect for the man of letters. They greeted each other coolly, while Cliffe, not seeing his hostess, looked round him with annoyance.
"Well—we shall probably entertain each other," said Darrell, as they sat down,—"Lady Kitty often forgets her engagements."
"Does she?" said Cliffe, coldly, pretending to glance through a book beside him. It touched his vanity that his hostess was not present, and still more that Darrell should suppose him a person to be forgotten. Darrell, however, who had no mind for any discomfort that might be avoided, made a few dexterous advances; Cliffe's brow relaxed, and they were soon in conversation.
The position of the ministry naturally presented itself as a topic. Two or three retirements were impending; the whole position was precarious. Would the cabinet be reconstructed without a dissolution, or must there be an appeal to the country?
Cliffe was passionately in favor of the latter course. The party fortunes could not possibly be retrieved without a general shuffling of the cards, and an opportunity for some wholly fresh combination involving new blood.
"In any case," said Cliffe, "I suppose our friend here is sure of one or other of the big posts?"
"William Ashe? Oh! I suppose so,—unless some intrigue gets in the way." Darrell dropped his voice. "Parham doesn't in truth hit it off with him very well. Ashe is too clever, and Parham doesn't understand his paradoxes."
"Also I gather," said Cliffe with a smile, "that Lady Parham has her say?"
Darrell shrugged his shoulders.
"It sounds incredible that one should still have to reckon with that kind of thing at this time of day. But I dare say it's true."
"However, I imagine Lady Kitty—by the way, how much longer shall we give her?"—Cliffe looked at his watch with a frown—"may be trusted to take care of that."
Darrell merely raised his eyebrows, without replying.
"What! not a match for one Lady Parham?" said Cliffe, with a laugh. "I should have thought—from my old recollections of her—she would have been a match for twenty?"
"Oh!—if she cared to try."
"She is not ambitious?"
"Certainly;—but not always for the same thing."
"She is trying to run too many horses abreast?"
"Oh! I am not a great friend," said Darrell, smiling,—"I should never dream of analyzing Lady Kitty. Ah!"—he turned his head—"are we not forgotten, or just remembered?—which?"
For a rapid step approached, and a sound of silk skirts. The door opened and a lady appeared on the threshold. It was not Lady Kitty, however. The newcomer advanced, putting up a pair of fashionable eye-glasses and looking at the two men in a kind of languid perplexity, intended, as Darrell immediately said to himself, merely to prolong the moment and the effect of her entry. Mrs. Alcot was very tall and inordinately thin. Her dark head on its slim throat, the poetic lines of the brow, her half-shut eyes, the gleam of her white teeth, and all the delicate detail of her dress, and, one might even say, of her manner, gave an impression of beauty, though she was not in truth beautiful. But she had grace and she had daring—the two essential qualities of an Archangel; she was also a remarkable artist, and no small critic.
"Mr. Cliffe!" she said, with a start of what was evidently agreeable surprise—"Kitty never told me. When did you come?"
"I arrived a few days ago. Why weren't you at the Embassy last night?"
