“A coxcomb!”

Kitty was up in arms.

“Pray, is he not a great traveller?—­a very great traveller?” she asked, with indignation.

“Certainly, by his own account.”

“And a most brilliant writer?”

“Macaulayese,” said Ashe, perversely, “and not very good at that.”

Kitty was at first struck dumb, and then began a voluble protest against unfairness so monstrous.  Did not all intelligent people read and admire?  It was mere jealousy, she repeated, to deny the gentleman’s claims.

Ashe let her talk and quote and excite herself, applying every now and then a little sly touch of the goad, to make her still run on, and so forget the tragic hour which had overshadowed her.  And meanwhile all he cared for was to watch the flashing of her face and eyes, and the play of the wind in her hair, and the springing grace with which she moved.  Poor child!—­it all came back to that—­poor child!—­what was to be done with her?

* * * * *

At luncheon—­the Sunday luncheon—­which still, at Grosville Park, as in the early Victorian days of Lord Grosville’s mother, consisted of a huge baronial sirloin to which all else upon the varied table appeared as appurtenance and appendage, Ashe allowed himself the inward reflection that the Grosville Park Sundays were degenerating.  Both Lord and Lady Grosville had been good hosts in their day; and the downrightness of the wife had been as much to the taste of many as the agreeable gossip of the husband.  But on this occasion both were silent and absent-minded.  Lady Grosville showed no generalship in placing her guests; the wrong people sat next to each other, and the whole party dragged—­without a leader.

And certainly Kitty Bristol did nothing to enliven it.  She sat very silent, her black dress changing her a good deal, to Ashe’s thinking, bringing back, as he chose to fancy, the pale convent girl.  Was it so that she went through her pious exercises?—­by-the-way, she was, of course, a Catholic?—­said her lessons, and went to her confessor?  Had the French cousin with whom she rode stag-hunting ever seen her like this?  No; Ashe felt certain that “Henri” had never seen her, except as a fashion-plate, or en amazone.  He could have made nothing of this ghost in black—­this distinguished, piteous, little ghost.

After luncheon it became tolerably clear to Ashe that Lady Grosville’s preoccupation had a cause.  And presently catching him alone in the library, whither he had retired with some official papers, she closed the door with deliberate care, and stood before him.

“I see you are interested in Kitty, and I feel as if I must tell you, and ask your opinion.  William, do you know what that child has been doing?”

He looked up from his writing.

“Ah!—­what have you been discovering?”

“Grosville told you the story last night.”