of the feminine influences involved—­will be found here in their lightest and most amusing form.  A certain famous fancy ball will be identified without difficulty.  Scathing as some of the portraits are, the writer is by no means merely cynical.  The central figure of the book is a young and rising statesman, whose aim and hopes are touched with a loving hand—­the charm of the portrait being only equalled by the venom with which the writer assails those who have thwarted or injured his hero.  But our advice is simply—­’Buy and Read!’ Conjecture will run wild about the writer.  All we can say is that the most romantic or interesting surmise that can possibly be formed will fall far short of the reality.”

“The beast is a shrewd beast!” said Ashe, as he raised himself from the stooping position in which he had been following the sentences over Kitty’s shoulder.  “He knows that the public will rush for his wares!  How much money did he offer you, Kitty?”

He turned sharply on his heel to wait for her reply.

“A hundred pounds,” said Kitty, almost inaudibly—­“and a hundred more if five thousand sold.”  She had returned again to her crouching attitude over the fire.

“Generous!—­upon my word!” said Ashe, scornfully turning over the two thick-leaved, loosely printed Mudie volumes.  “A guinea to the public, I suppose—­fifteen shillings to the trade.  Darrell didn’t exactly advise you to advantage, Kitty.”

Kitty kept silence.  The sarcastic violence of his tone fell on her like a blow.  She seemed to shrink together; while Ashe resumed his walk to and fro.

Presently, however, she looked up, to ask, in a voice that tried for steadiness: 

“What do you mean to do—­exactly—­William?”

“I shall, of course, buy up all I can; I shall employ some lawyer fellow, and appeal to the good feelings of the newspapers.  There will be no trouble with the respectable ones.  But some copies will get out, and some of the Opposition newspapers will make capital out of them.  Naturally!—­they’d be precious fools if they didn’t.”

A momentary hope sprang up in Kitty.

“But if you buy it up—­and stop all the papers that matter,” she faltered—­“why should you resign, William?  There won’t be—­such great harm done.”

For answer he opened the book, and without speaking pointed to two passages—­the first, an account full of point and malice of the negotiations between himself and Lord Parham at the time when he entered the cabinet, the conditions he himself had made, and the confidential comments of the Premier on the men and affairs of the moment.

“Do you remember the night when I told you those things, Kitty?”

Yes, Kitty remembered well.  It was a night of intimate talk between man and wife, a night when she had shown him her sweetest, tenderest mood, and he—­incorrigible optimist!—­had persuaded himself that she was growing as wise as she was lovely.