She raised her shoulders again impetuously, frowning at a huge full-length opposite of Lord Grosville as M.F.H., a masterpiece indeed of early Victorian vulgarity.

Then suddenly, hastily, with that flashing softness which so often transformed her expression, she turned towards him, trying to make amends.

“But the library—­that was bien—­ah! tr-res, tr-res bien!”

Her r’s rolled a little as she spoke, with a charming effect, and she looked at him radiantly, as though to strike and to make amends were equally her prerogative, and she asked no man’s leave.

“You’ve not yet seen what there is to see here,” said Ashe, smiling.  “Look behind you.”

The girl turned her slim neck and exclaimed.  For behind Ashe’s chair was the treasure of the house.  It was a “Dance of Children,” by one of the most famous of the eighteenth-century masters.  From the dark wall it shone out with a flower-like brilliance, a vision of color and of grace.  The children danced through a golden air, their bodies swaying to one of those “unheard melodies” of art, sweeter than all mortal tunes; their delicate faces alive with joy.  The sky and grass and trees seemed to caress them; a soft sunlight clothed them; and flowers brushed their feet.

Kitty turned back again and was silent.  Was it Ashe’s fancy, or had she grown pale?

“Did you like it?” he asked her.  She turned to him, and for the second time in their acquaintance he saw her eyes floating in tears.

“It is too beautiful!” she said, with an effort—­almost an angry effort.  “I don’t want to see it again.”

“I thought it would give you pleasure,” said Ashe, gently, suddenly conscious of a hope that she was not aware of the slight look of amusement with which Mary Lyster was contemplating them both.

“So it did,” said Kitty, furtively applying her lace handkerchief to her tears; “but”—­her voice dropped—­“when one’s unhappy—­very unhappy—­things like that—­things like Heaven—­hurt!  Oh, what a fool I am!” And she sat straightly up, looking round her.

There was a pause; then Ashe said, in another voice: 

“Look here, you know this won’t do.  I thought we were to be cousins.”

“Well?” said Kitty, indifferently, not looking at him.

“And I understood that I was to be taken into respectable cousinly counsel?”

“Well?” said Kitty again, crumbling her bread.  “I can’t do it here, can I?”

Ashe laughed.

“Well, anyhow, we’re going to sample the garden to-morrow morning, aren’t we?”

“I suppose so,” said Kitty.  Then, after a moment, she looked at her right-hand neighbor, the young politician to whom as yet she had scarcely vouchsafed a word.

“What’s his name?” she asked, under her breath.  Ashe repeated it.

“Perhaps I ought to talk to him?”

“Of course you ought,” said Ashe, with smiling decision, and turning to the lady whom he had brought in he left her free.