Grosville Park was rich in second-rate antiques; and there was a Greco-Roman head above the bookcase with which Ashe had been often compared.  As he stood now leaning against the fireplace, the close-piled curls, and eyes—­somewhat “a fleur de tete”—­of the bust were undoubtedly repeated with some closeness in the living man.  Those whom he had offended by some social carelessness or other said of him when they wished to run him down, that he was “floridly” handsome; and there was some truth in it.

“Didn’t you get the message about dinner?” said Lady Grosville.  Then, as he shook his head:  “Very remiss of Parkin.  I always tell him he loses his head directly the party goes into double figures.  We had to put off dinner a quarter of an hour because of Kitty Bristol, who missed her train at St. Pancras, and only arrived half an hour ago.  By-the-way, I suppose you have already seen her—­at that woman’s?”

“I met her a week or two ago, at Madame d’Estrees’,” said Ashe, apparently preoccupied with something wrong in the set of his white waistcoat.

“What did you think of her?”

“A charming young lady,” said Ashe, smiling.  “What else should I think?”

“A lamb thrown to the wolves,” said Lady Grosville, grimly.  “How that woman could do such a thing!”

“I saw nothing lamblike about Lady Kitty,” said Ashe.  “And do you include me among the wolves?”

Lady Grosville hesitated a moment, then stuck to her colors.

“You shouldn’t go to such a house,” she said, boldly—­“I suppose I may say that without offence, William, as I’ve known you from a boy.”

“Say anything you like, my dear Lady Grosville!  So you—­believe evil things—­of Madame d’Estrees?”

His tone was light, but his eyes sought the distant door, as though invoking some fellow-guest to appear and protect him.

Lady Grosville did not answer.  Ashe’s look returned to her, and he was startled by the expression of her face.  He had always known and unwillingly admired her for a fine Old Testament Christian, one from whom the language of the imprecatory Psalms with regard to her enemies, personal and political, might have flowed more naturally than from any other person he knew, of the same class and breeding.  But this loathing—­this passion of contempt—­this heat of memory!—­these were new indeed, and the fire of them transfigured the old, gray face.

“I have known a fair number of bad people,” said Lady Grosville, in a low voice—­“and a good many wicked women.  But for meanness and vileness combined, the things I know of the woman who was Blackwater’s wife have no equal in my experience!”

There was a moment’s pause.  Then Ashe said, in a voice as serious as her own: 

“I am sorry to hear you say that, partly because I like Madame d’Estrees, and partly—­because—­I was particularly attracted by Lady Kitty.”

Lady Grosville looked up sharply.  “Don’t marry her, William!—­don’t marry her!  She comes of a bad stock.”