“This won’t do,” he said, presently, disengaging himself; “you must have some food and rest.  Then we’ll think what shall be done.”

She roused herself suddenly as he went to the door.

“Why aren’t you at the Foreign Office?”

“I sent a message early.  Lawson came”—­Lawson was his private secretary—­“but I must go down in an hour.”

“William!”

Kitty had raised herself, and her eyes shone large and startled in the small, tear-stained face.

“Yes.”  He paused a moment.

“William, is the list out?”

“Yes.”

Kitty tottered to her feet.

“Is it all right?”

“I suppose so,” he said, slowly.  “It doesn’t affect me.”

And then, without waiting, he went into the hall and closed the door behind him.  He wrote a note to the Foreign Office to say that he should not be at the office till the afternoon, and that important papers were to be sent up to him.  Then he told Wilson to bring wine and sandwiches into the library for Lady Kitty, who had been detained by an accident on the river the night before, and was much exhausted.  No visitors were to be admitted, except, of course, Lady Tranmore or Miss French.

When he returned to the library he found Kitty with crimson cheeks, her hands locked behind her, walking up and down.  As soon as she saw him she motioned to him imperiously.

[Illustration:  “HE GATHERED HER IN HIS ARMS”]

“Shut the door, William.  I have something very important to say to you.”

He obeyed her, and she walked up to him deliberately.  He saw the fluttering of her heart beneath her white dress—­the crushed, bedraggled dress, which still in its soft elegance, its small originalities, spoke Kitty from head to foot.  But her manner was quite calm and collected.

“William, we must separate!  You must send me away.”

He started.

“What do you mean?”

“What I say.  It is—­it is intolerable—­that I should ruin your life like this.”

“Don’t, please, exaggerate, Kitty!  There is no question of ruin.  I shall make my way when the time comes, and Lady Parham will have nothing to say to it!”

“No!  Nothing will ever go well—­while I’m there—­like a millstone round your neck.  William”—­she came closer to him—­“take my advice—­do it!  I Warned you when you married me.  And now you see—­it was true.”

“You foolish child,” he answered, slowly, “do you think I could forget you for an hour, wherever you were?”

“Oh yes,” she said, steadily, “I know you would forget me—–­ if I wasn’t here.  I’m sure of it.  You’re very ambitious, William—­more than you know.  You’ll soon care—­”

“More for politics than for you?  Another of your delusions, Kitty.  Nothing of the sort.  Moreover, if you will only let me advise you—­trust your husband a little—­think both for him and yourself.  I see nothing either in politics or in our life together that cannot be retrieved.”