Ashe nodded.

“Well—­Kitty wrote to Alice this morning—­and they met.  Alice has kept her room since—­prostrate—­so the Sowerbys tell me.  I have just had a note from Mrs. Sowerby.  Wasn’t it an extraordinary, an indelicate thing to do?”

Ashe studied the frowning lady a moment—­so large and daunting in her black silk and white lace.  She seemed to suggest all those aspects of the English Sunday for which he had most secret dislike—­its Pharisaism and dulness and heavy meals.  He felt himself through and through Lady Kitty’s champion.

“I should have thought it very natural,” was his reply.

Lady Grosville threw up her hands.

“Natural!—­when she knows—­”

“How can she know?” cried Ashe, hotly.  “How can such a child know or guess anything?  She only knows that there is some black charge against her mother, on which no one will enlighten her.  How can they?  But meanwhile her mother is ostracized, and she feels herself dragged into the disgrace, not understanding why or wherefore.  Could anything be more pathetic—­more touching?”

In his heat of feeling he got up, and began to pace up and down.  Lady Grosville’s countenance expressed first astonishment—­then wavering.

“Oh—­of course, it’s very sad,” she said—­“extremely sad.  But I should have thought Kitty was clever enough to understand at least that Alice must have some grave reason for breaking with her mother—­”

“Don’t you all forget what a child she is,” said Ashe, indignantly—­“not yet nineteen!”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Lady Grosville, grudgingly.  “I must confess I find it difficult to judge her fairly.  She’s so different from my own girls.”

Ashe hastily agreed.  Then it struck him as odd that he should have fallen so quickly into this position of Kitty’s defender with her father’s family; and he drew in his horns.  He resumed his work, and Lady Grosville sat for a while, her hands in her lap, quietly observing him.

At last she said: 

“So you think, William, I had better leave Kitty alone?”

“About what?” Ashe raised his curly head with a laugh.  “Don’t put too much responsibility on me.  I know nothing about young ladies.”

“I don’t know that I do—­much,” said Lady Grosville, candidly.  “My own daughters are so exceptional.”

Ashe held his peace.  Distant cousins as they were, he hardly knew the Grosville girls apart, and had never yet grasped any reason why he should.

“At any rate, I see clearly,” said Lady Grosville, after another pause, “that you’re very sorry for Kitty.  Of course, it’s very nice of you, and I find it’s what most people feel.”

“Hang it! dear Lady Grosville, why shouldn’t they?” said Ashe, turning round on his chair.  “If ever there was a forlorn little person on earth, I thought Lady Kitty was that person at lunch to-day.”

“And after that absurd exhibition last night!” said Lady Grosville, with a shrug.  “You never know where to have her.  You think she looked ill?”