“Have you heard anything more about Tuesday?” she asked him, presently.

“Oh yes!—­compliments by the dozen.  Old Parham overtook me as I was walking away from the House, and said all manner of civil things.”

“And I met Lady Parham in Marshall’s,” said Kitty.  “She does thank so badly!  I should like to show her how to do it.  Dear me!” Kitty sighed.  “Am I henceforth to live and die on Lady Parham’s ample breast?”

She sat with one foot beating the floor, deep in meditation.

“And shall I tell you what mother said?” shouted Ashe through the door.

“Yes.”

He repeated—­so fat as dressing would let him a number of the charming and considered phrases in which Lady Tranmore, full of relief, pleasure, and a secret self-reproach, had expressed to him the effect produced upon herself and a select public by Kitty’s performance at the Parhams’.  Kitty had indeed behaved like an angel—­an angel en toilette de bal, reciting a scene from Alfred de Musset.  Such politeness to Lady Parham, such smiles, sometimes a shade malicious, for the Prime Minister, who on his side did his best to efface all memory of his speech of the week before from the mind of his fascinating guest; smiles from the Princess, applause from the audience; an evening, in fact, all froth and sweetstuff, from which Lady Parham emerged grimly content, conscious at the same time that she was henceforward very decidedly, and rather disagreeably, in the Ashes’ debt; while Elizabeth Tranmore went home in a tremor of delight, happily persuaded that Ashe’s path was now clear.

Kitty listened, sometimes pleased, sometimes inclined to be critical or scornful of her mother-in-law’s praise.  But she did love Lady Tranmore, and on the whole she smiled.  Smiles, indeed, had been Kitty’s portion since that evening of strange emotion, when she had found herself sobbing in William’s arms for reasons quite beyond her own defining.  It was as if, like the prince in the fairy tale, some iron band round her heart had given way.  She seemed to dance through the house; she devoured her child with kisses; and she was even willing sometimes to let William tell her what his mother suspected of the progress of Mary’s affair with Geoffrey Cliffe, though she carefully avoided speaking directly to Lady Tranmore about it.  As to Cliffe himself, she seemed to have dropped him out of her thoughts.  She never mentioned him, and Ashe could only suppose she had found him disenchanting.

“Well, darling!  I hope I have made a sufficient fool of myself to please you!”

Ashe had thrown the door wide, and stood on the threshold, arrayed in the brocade and fur of a Venetian noble.  He was a somewhat magnificent apparition, and Kitty, who had coaxed or driven him into the dress, gave a scream of delight.  She saw him before her own glass, and the crimson senator made eyes at the white goddess as they posed triumphantly together.