The languid arrogance of the lady’s manner was not at all unbecoming.  Darrell made an inclination.

“No need to remind me, madam!” A recent exhibition at an artistic club of Mrs. Alcot’s sketches had made a considerable mark.  “Very soon you will leave us poor professionals no room to live.”

The slight disrespect of his smile annoyed his companion, but the day was hot and she had no repartee ready.  She only murmured as she threw away her cigarette: 

“Kitty is much disappointed in the village.”

“They are greater brutes than she thought?”

“Quite the contrary.  There are no poachers—­and no murders.  The girls prefer to be married, and the Tranmores give so much away that no one has the smallest excuse for starvation.  Kitty gets nothing out of them whatever.”

“In the way of literary material?”

Mrs. Alcot nodded.

“Last week she was so discouraged that she was inclined to give up fiction and take to journalism.”

“Heavens!  Political?”

“Oh, la haute politique, of course.”

“H’m.  The wives of cabinet ministers have often inspired articles.  I don’t remember an instance of their writing them.”

“Well, Kitty is inclined to try.”

“With Ashe’s sanction?”

“Goodness, no!  But Kitty, as you are aware”—­Mrs. Alcot threw a prudent glance to right and left—­“goes her own way.  She believes she can be of great service to her husband’s policy.”

Darrell’s lip twitched.

“If you were in Ashe’s position, would you rather your wife neglected or supported your political interests?”

Mrs. Alcot shrugged her shoulders.

“Kitty made a considerable mess of them last year.”

“No doubt.  She forgot they existed.  But I think if I were Ashe, I should be more afraid of her remembering.  By-the-way—­the glass here seems to be at ’Set Fair’?”

His interrogative smile was not wholly good-natured.  But mere benevolence was not what the world asked of Philip Darrell—­even in the case of his old friends.

“Astonishing!” said Mrs. Alcot, with lifted brows.  “Kitty is immensely proud of him—­and immensely ambitious.  That, of course, accounts for Lord Parham’s visit.”

“Lord Parham!” cried Darrell, bounding on his seat.  “Lord Parham!—­coming here?”

“He arrives to-morrow.  On his way from Scotland—­to Windsor.”

Mrs. Alcot enjoyed the effect of her communication on her companion.  He sat open-mouthed, evidently startled out of all self-command.

“Why, I thought that Lady Kitty—­”

“Had vowed vengeance?  So, in a sense, she has.  It is understood that she and Lady Parham don’t meet, except—­”

“On formal occasions, and to take in the groundlings,” said Darrell, too impatient to let her finish her sentence.  “Yes, that I gathered.  But you mean that Lord Parham is to be allowed to make his peace?”