“Are you quite determined I sha’n’t get any joy out of my holiday?”

She shook her head uncertainly.  Then, almost immediately, she began to chatter to Margaret French about the sights of the lagoon, with her natural trenchancy and fun.  But her hand, hidden under the folds of her black cloak, still clung to William’s.

“It is her illness,” he said to himself, “and the loss of the child.”

And at the remembrance of his little son, a wave of sore yearning filled his own heart.  Deep under the occupations and interests of the mind lay this passionate regret, and at any moment of pause or silence its “buried life” arose and seized him.  But he was a busy politician, absorbed even in these days of holiday by the questions and problems of the hour.  And Kitty was a delicate woman—­with no defence against the torture of grief.

He thought of those first days after the child’s death, when in spite of the urgency of the doctors it had been impossible to keep the news from Kitty; of the ghastly effect of it upon nerves and brain already imperilled by causes only half intelligible; of those sudden flights from her nurses, when the days of convalescence began, to the child’s room, and, later, to his grave.  There was stinging pain in these recollections.  Nor was he, in truth, much reassured by his wife’s more recent state.  It was impossible, indeed, that he should give it the same constant thought as a woman might—­or a man of another and more emotional type.  At this moment, perhaps, he had literally no time for the subtleties of introspective feeling, even had his temperament inclined him to them, which was, in truth, not the case.  He knew that Kitty had suddenly and resolutely ceased to talk about the boy, had thrown herself with the old energy into new pursuits, and, since she came to Venice in particular, had shown a feverish desire to fill every hour with movement and sight-seeing.

But was she, in truth, much better—­in body or soul?—­poor child!  The doctors had explained her illness as nervous collapse, pointing back to a long preceding period of overstrain and excitement.  There had been suspicions of tubercular mischief, but no precise test was then at command; and as Kitty had improved with rest and feeding the idea had been abandoned.  But Ashe was still haunted by it, though quite ready—­being a natural optimist—­to escape from it, and all other incurable anxieties, as soon as Kitty herself should give the signal.

As to the moral difficulties and worries of those months at Haggart, Ashe remembered them as little as might be.  Kitty’s illness, indeed, had shown itself in more directions than one, as an amending and appeasing fact.  Even Lord Parham had been moved to compassion and kindness by the immediate results of that horrible scene on the terrace.  His leave-taking from Ashe on the morning afterwards had been almost cordial—­almost intimate.  And as to Lady Tranmore, whenever she had been able