Lady Edith Manley—­at Holland House—­had been the most innocent of gossips.  A little lady who did no wrong herself—­and thought no wrong of others; as white-minded and unsuspicious as a convent child.  “Poor Lady Kitty!  Something seemed to have gone wrong with the Alcots’ coach, and they were somehow divided from all their party.  I can’t remember exactly what it was they said, but Mr. Cliffe was confident they would catch their train.  Though my boy—­you remember my boy? they’ve just put him in the eight!—­thought they were running it rather fine.”

Then, five minutes later, in the supper-room, Lady Tranmore had run across Madeleine Alcot’s husband, who had given her in passing the whole story of the frustrated expedition—­Mrs. Alcot’s chill, and the despatch of Cliffe to Hill Street.  “Horrid bore to have to put it off!  Hope he got there in time to stop Lady Kitty getting ready.  Oh, thanks, Madeleine’s all right.”

And then no more, as the rush of the crowd swept them apart.

After that, sleep had wholly deserted Lady Tranmore—­if, indeed, after the publication of the cabinet list in the afternoon, and William’s letter following upon it, any had been still possible.  And in the early morning she had sent her note to Kitty—­a ballon d’essai, despatched in a horror of great fear.

“Her ladyship has not yet returned.”  The message from Hill Street, delivered by the footman’s indifferent mouth, struck Lady Tranmore with trembling.

“Where is William?” she said to herself, in anguish.  “I must find him—­but—­what shall I say to him?” Then she went up-stairs, and, without calling for her maid, put on her walking things with shaking hands.

She slipped out unobserved by her household, and took a hansom from the corner of Grosvenor Street.  In the hansom she carefully drew down her veil, with the shrinking of one on whom disgrace—­the long pursuing, long expected—­has seized at last.  All the various facts, statements, indications as to Kitty’s behavior, which through the most diverse channels had been flowing steadily towards her for weeks past, were now surging through her mind and memory—­a grievous, damning host.  And every now and then, as she caught the placards in the streets, her heart contracted anew.  Her son, her William, in what should have been the heyday of his gifts and powers, baffled, tripped up, defeated!—­by his own wife, the selfish, ungrateful, reckless child on whom he had lavished the undeserved treasures of the most generous and untiring love.  And had she not only checked or ruined his career—­was he to be also dishonored, struck to the heart?

She could scarcely stand as she rang the bell at Hill Street, and it was only with a great effort that she could ask her question: 

“Is Mr. Ashe at home?”

“Mr. Ashe, my lady, is, I believe, just going out,” said Wilson.  “Her ladyship arrived just about an hour ago, and that detained him.”