“May we come in, Kitty?” said Mary Lyster, advancing.  “Cousin Elizabeth told us you were here.”

Kitty had sprung up.  The disorder of her fair hair, her white cheeks, and the ghostly thinness of her small, black-robed form drew the curious eyes of Sir Richard.  And the oddness of her manner as she greeted them only confirmed the old man’s prejudice against her.

However, greeted they were, in some sort of fashion; and Miss French gave them tea.  She kept Sir Richard entertained, while Kitty and Mary conversed.  They talked perfunctorily of ordinary topics—­Venice, its sights, its hotels, and the people staying in them—­of Lady Tranmore and various Ashe relations.  Meanwhile the inmost thought of each was busy with the other.

Kitty studied the lines of Mary’s face and the fashion of her dress.

“She looks much older.  And she’s not enjoying her life a bit.  That’s my fault.  I spoiled all her chances with Geoffrey—­and she knows it.  She hates me.  Quite right, too.”

“Oh, you mean that nonsensical thing last night?” Sir Richard was saying to Margaret French.  “Oh no, I didn’t go.  But Mary, of course, thought she must go.  Somebody invited her.”

Kitty started.

“You were at the serenata?” she said to Mary.

“Yes, I went with a party from the hotel.”

Kitty looked at her.  A sudden flush had touched her pale cheeks, and she could not conceal the trembling of her hands.

“That was marvellous, that light on the Salute, wasn’t it?”

“Wonderful!—­and on the water, too.  I saw two or three people I knew—­just caught their faces for a second.”

“Did you?” said Kitty.  And thoughts ran fast through her head.  “Did she see Geoffrey?—­and does she mean me to understand that she did?  How she detests me!  If she did see him, of course she supposes that I know all about it, and that he’s here for me.  Why don’t I ask her, straight out, whether she saw him, and make her understand that I don’t care twopence?—­that she’s welcome to him—­as far as I’m concerned?”

But some hidden feeling tied her tongue.  Mary continued to talk about the serenata, and Kitty was presently conscious that her every word and gesture in reply was closely watched.  “Yes, yes, she saw him.  Perhaps she’ll tell William—­or write home to mother?”

And in her excitement she began to chatter fast and loudly, mostly to Sir Richard—­repeating some of the Venice tales she had told in the gondola—­with much inconsequence and extravagance.  The old man listened, his hands on his stick, his eyes on the ground, the expression on his strong mouth hostile or sarcastic.  It was a relief to everybody when Ashe’s step was heard stumbling up the dark stairs, and the door opened on his friendly and courteous presence.

“Why, Polly!—­and Cousin Richard!  I wondered where you had hidden yourselves.”