And beside her was her somewhat mysterious friend of London days, the Colonel Warington who had been so familiar a figure in the gatherings of St. James’s Place—­grown much older, almost white-haired, and as gentlemanly as ever.  Who was the lady?  Ashe was introduced, was aware of a somewhat dark and Jewish cast of face, noticed some fine jewels, and could only suppose that his mother-in-law had picked up some one to finance her, and provide her with creature comforts in return for the social talents that Madame d’Estrees still possessed in some abundance.  He had more than once noticed her skill in similar devices; but, indeed, they were indispensable, for while he allowed Madame d’Estrees one thousand a year, she was, it seemed, firmly determined to spend a minimum of three.

He and Warington looked at each other with curiosity.  The bronzed face and honest eyes of the soldier betrayed nothing.  “Are you going to marry her at last?” thought Ashe.  “Poor devil!”

Meanwhile Madame d’Estrees chattered away as though nothing could be more natural than their meeting, or more perfect than the relations between herself and her daughter and son-in-law.

As they all strolled down the church she looked keenly at Kitty.

“My dear child, how ill you look!—­and your mourning!  Ah, yes, of course!”—­she bit her lip—­“I remember—­the poor, poor boy—­”

“Thank you!” said Kitty, hastily.  “I got your letter—­thank you very much.  Where are you staying?  We’ve got rooms on the Grand Canal.”

“Oh, but, Kitty!” cried Madame d’Estrees—­“I was so sorry for you!”

“Were you?” said Kitty, under her breath.  “Then, please, never speak of him to me again!”

Startled and offended, Madame d’Estrees looked at her daughter.  But what she saw disarmed her.  For once even she felt something like the pang of a mother.  “You’re dreadfully thin, Kitty!”

Kitty frowned with annoyance.

“It’s not my fault,” she said, pettishly.  “I live on cream, and it’s no good.  Of course, I know I’m an object and a scarecrow; but I’d rather people didn’t tell me.”

“What nonsense, chere enfant! You’re much prettier than you ever were.”

A wild and fugitive radiance swept across the face beside her.

“Am I?” said Kitty, smiling.  “That’s all right!  If I had died it wouldn’t matter, of course.  But—­”

“Died!  What do you mean, Kitty?” said Madame d’Estrees, in bewilderment.  “When William wrote to me I thought he meant you had overtired yourself.”

“Oh, well, the doctors said it was touch and go,” said Kitty, indifferently.  “But, of course, it wasn’t.  I’m much too tough.  And then they fussed about one’s heart.  And that’s all nonsense, too.  I couldn’t die if I tried.”

But Madame d’Estrees pondered—­the bright, intermittent color, the emaciation, the hollowness of the eyes.  The effect, so far, was to add to Kitty’s natural distinction, to give, rather, a touch of pathos to a face which even in its wildest mirth had in it something alien and remote.  But she, too, reflected that a little more, a very little more, and—­in a night—­the face would have dropped its beauty, as a rose its petals.