Elizabeth betrayed nothing.  The training of her class held good.

“Are they in the library?” she asked—­“or up-stairs?”

Wilson replied that he believed her ladyship was in her room, and Mr. Ashe with her.

“Please ask Mr. Ashe if I can see him for a few minutes.”

Wilson disappeared, and Lady Tranmore stood motionless, looking round at William’s books and tables.  She loved everything that his hand had touched, every sign of his character—­the prize books of his college days, the pictures on the wall, many of which had descended from his Eton study, the photographs of his favorite hunter, the drawing she herself had made for him of his first pony.

On his writing-table lay a despatch-box from the Foreign Office.  Lady Tranmore turned away from it.  It reminded her intolerably of the shock and defeat of the day before.  During the past six months she had become more rejoicingly conscious than ever before of his secret, deepening ambition, and her own heart burned with the smart of his disappointment.  No one else, however, should guess at it through her.  No sooner had she received his letter from the club than, after many weeks of withdrawal from society, she had forced herself to go to the Holland House party, that no one might say she hid herself, that no one might for an instant suppose that any hostile act of such a man as Lord Parham, or any malice of that low-minded woman, could humiliate her son or herself.

Suddenly she saw Kitty’s gloves—­Kitty’s torn and soiled gloves—­lying on the floor.  She clasped her trembling hands, trying to steady herself.  Husband and wife were together.  What tragedy was passing between them?

Of course there might have been an accident; her thoughts might be all mistake and illusion.  But Lady Tranmore hardly allowed herself to encourage the alternative of hope.  It was like Kitty’s audacity to have come back.  Incredible!—­unfathomable!—­like all she did.

“Her ladyship says, my lady, would you please go up to her room?”

The message was given in Blanche’s timid voice.  Lady Tranmore started, looked at the girl, longed to question her, and had not the courage.  She followed mechanically, and in silence.  Could she, must she face it?  Yes—­for her son’s sake.  She prayed inwardly that she might meet the ordeal before her with Christian strength and courage.

* * * * *

The door opened.  She saw two figures in the pretty, bright-colored room, William sat astride upon a chair in front of Kitty, who, like some small mother-bird, hovered above him, holding what seemed to be a tiny strip of bread-and-butter, which she was dropping with dainty deliberation into his mouth.  Her face, in spite of the red and swollen eyes, was alive with fun, and Ashe’s laugh reflected hers.  The domesticity, the intimate affection of the scene—­before these things Elizabeth Tranmore stood gasping.