vided from the salons of the other by a sulphurous gulf, unless when some Lazarus of the moment, some well-known novelist or poet, cradled in the Abraham's bosom of Liberalism, passed amid shrieks of triumph or howls of treason into the official Inferno.
Not that there was any avoiding of topics in this English case. Ashe had no sooner slipped into his seat than he began to banter Cliffe upon a letter of a supporter which had appeared in that morning's Times. It was written by Lord S———, who had played the part of public "fool" for half a generation. To be praised by him was disaster, and Cliffe's flush showed at once that the letter had caused him acute annoyance. He and Ashe fell upon the writer, vying with each other in anecdotes that left him presently close-plucked and bare.
"That's all very well," said Kitty, amid the laughter which greeted the last tale, "but he never told you how he proposed to the second Lady S———."
And lifting a red strawberry, which she held poised against her red, laughing lips, she waited a moment—looking round her. "Go on, Kitty!" said Ashe, approvingly,—"go on."
Thus permitted, Kitty gave one of the little "scenes," arranged from some experience of her own, which were very famous amongst her intimates. Ashe called them her "parlor tricks," and was never tired of making her exhibit them. And now, just as at Grosville Park, she held her audience. She spoke without a halt, her small features answering perfectly to every impulse of her talent, each touch of character or dialogue as telling as a malicious sense of comedy could make it; arms, hands, shoulders, all aiding in the final result—a table swept by a very storm of laughter, in the midst of which Kitty quietly finished her strawberry.
"Well done, Kitty!" Ashe, who sat opposite to her, stretched his hand across and patted hers.
"Does she love him?" Cliffe asked himself, and could not make up his mind, closely as he tried to observe their relations. He was more and more conscious of the exciting effect she produced on himself, doubly so indeed because of that sudden stroke of melancholy wherewith—like a Rembrandt shadow—she had thrown into relief the gayety and frivolity of her ordinary mood.
The stimulus, whatever it was, played upon his vanity. He too sought an opening and found it. Soon it was he who was monopolizing the conversation, with an account of two days spent with Bismarck in a Prussian country house—during the triumphant days of the winter which followed on Sadowa. The story was brilliantly told, and of some political importance. But it was disfigured by arrogance and affectation, and Ashe's eyes began to dance a little. Cliffe meanwhile could not forget that he was in the presence of a rival and an official, could not refrain after a while from a note of challenge here and there. The conversation diverged from the tale into matters of current foreign politics. Ashe, lounging and smoking, at first knew nothing, had heard of nothing, as usual. Then a comment or correction dropped out; Cliffe repeated himself vehemently—only to provoke another. Presently, no one knew how, the two men were measured against each other corps à corps,—the wide knowledge and trained experience of the minister, against the originality, the force, the fantastic imagination of the writer.
The Dean watched it with delight. He was very fond of Ashe, and liked to see him getting the better of "the newspaper fellow." Kitty's lovely brown eyes travelled from one to the other. Now it seemed to the Dean that she was proud of Ashe, now that she sympathized with Cliffe. Soon, however, like the god at Philippi, she swept upon the poet and bore him from the field.
"Not a word more politics!" she said, peremptorily, to Ashe, holding up her hand. "I want to talk to Mr. Cliffe about the ball."
Cliffe was not very ready to obey. He had an angry sense of having been somehow shown to disadvantage, and would like to have challenged his host again. But Kitty poured balm into his wounds. She drew him apart a little, using the play of her beautiful eyes for him only, and talking to him in a new voice of deference.
"You're going, of course? Lady M——— told me the other day she must have you!"
