must be and was ashamed of her.  It would have been altogether out of consonance with his character to put any obstacle in the way of Kitty’s seeing her mother.  But he chafed as he had never yet chafed under the humiliation of his relationship to the notorious Margaret Fitzgerald of the forties, who had been old Blackwater’s chere amie before she married him, and, as Lady Blackwater, had sacrificed her innocent and defenceless step-daughter to one of her own lovers, in order to secure for him the step-daughter’s fortune—­black and dastardly deed!

Was it all part of the general growth and concentration that any shrewd observer might have read in William Ashe?—­the pressure—­enormous, unseen—­of the traditional English ideals, English standards, asserting itself at last in a brilliant and paradoxical nature?  It had been so—­conspicuously—­in the case of one of his political predecessors.  Lord Melbourne had begun his career as a person of idle habits and imprudent adventures, much given to coarse conversation, and unable to say the simplest thing without an oath.  He ended it as the man of scrupulous dignity, tact, and delicacy, who moulded the innocent youth of a girl-queen, to his own lasting honor and England’s gratitude.  In ways less striking, the same influence of vast responsibilities was perhaps acting upon William Ashe.  It had already made him a sterner, tougher, and—­no doubt—­a greater man.

The defection of William only left Kitty, it seemed, still more greedy of things to see and do.  Innumerable sacristans opened all possible doors and unveiled all possible pictures.  Bellini succeeded Tintoret, and Carpaccio Bellini.  The two sable gondoliers wore themselves out in Kitty’s service, and Margaret’s kind, round face grew more and more puzzled and distressed.  And whence this strange impression that the whole experience was a flight on Kitty’s part?—­or, rather, that throughout it she was always eagerly expecting, or eagerly escaping from some unknown, unseen pursuer?  A glance behind her—­a start—­a sudden shivering gesture in the shadows of dark churches—­these things suggested it, till Margaret herself was caught by the same suppressed excitement that seemed to be alive in Kitty.  Did it all point merely to some mental state—­to the nervous effects of her illness and her loss?

When they reached home about five o’clock, Kitty was naturally tired out.  Margaret put her on the sofa, gave her tea, and tended her, hoping that she might drop asleep before dinner.  But just as tea was over, and Kitty was lying curled up, silent and white, with that brooding look which kept Margaret’s anxiety about her constantly alive, there was a sudden sound of voices in the anteroom outside.

“Margaret!” cried Kitty, starting up in dismay—­“say I’m not at home.”

Too late!  Their smiling Italian housemaid threw the door open, with the air of one bringing good-fortune.  And behind her appeared a tall lady, and an old gentleman hat in hand.